


Right Of Claim

by 0_Ruthless_0



Series: Right of Claim [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:57:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 89,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0_Ruthless_0/pseuds/0_Ruthless_0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he ran away from home Rupert stayed somewhere that he really shouldn't have. Ethan wasn't just a Chaos Mage, he was also an Elder amongst vampires, who exerted his Claim over the 15 year old Watcher's son. </p>
<p>Warning for drug use, underage, non-con (rape), homosexuality, slave and master, blood play, bondage, etc (although not all right off the bat).</p>
<p>Written for Summer Of Giles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue – A Tarnished Den (And Reasons for Being Free)

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 of what will be a two-part piece at the moment, depending on how the second part turns out. May have to stretch to three by the time things are done. Pairing for part 1 of the is Giles/Ethan, part 2 will extend to Giles/Xander, VampEth/Xander as well.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with this, other than plot-line. All recognizable characters are property of 20th century Fox, and Joss. And so on, and so forth.

**Right of Claim **

 

**Prologue – A Tarnished Den (And Reasons for Being Free)**

“Kiss the warm knives as they dig for your soul  
There in the corner of my dirty home”  
-Michael Hutchence - Fear

 

Sure the place stunk, and the constant restless movement was distracting, to say the least, but at least it was a roof over his head, the possibility of a reasonable meal, and maybe even a decent bed to spend a few nights in.

  
He’d never thought that he would find himself quite hungry enough – quite desperate enough, for that matter, to turn to a place like this, but ever since he’d got into that fight at the bus station, his luck had gone from bad to worse.

 

His chest ached with every inhale, and he was pretty sure that at least a couple of ribs were fractured, if not broken. And the ‘flu that had caught him a few days ago was taking more of a toll than it usually would, too. The telling sign from that was the metallic taste that he’d experienced the last couple of times that he’d doubled up coughing, the only reason that he hadn’t yelled out being the fact that the pain had left him too breathless to.

 

He didn’t think that he wanted to see what it would have looked like, had there actually been enough light to see by.

 

He was sick of constantly looking over his shoulder, of sleeping rough, of always being hungry, of damp clothing and a wet sleeping bag. In short, he was sick of the street. No one had told him that it would be like this before he left.

 

He’d heard the stories of glory and pride and war and black magick, and he’d taken off the second that he’d had the opportunity to grab the money, some clothing and run. In short he was sick of everything

 

But still not sick enough of it to go back home even though he was sure that by now his father would have been willing to welcome him back without saying too much. It was more the point of it, that it would feel like giving up, and admitting that the old man was right, that the only future which he really did have ahead of him was an Oxford education and a Watcher’s life. He didn’t want to watch a girl who had been innocent before her exposure to the darkness, die.

 

He’d learned about places like this a couple of years ago in his training, places that weren’t even really fit to be called houses, but that were still better than anything that the street offered, where runaways, and people that were very much down on their luck could come to, and…

 

Well he would keep on telling himself that this place would be a blessing in a drab disguise, anyway. At least the innate magick woven into this place ought to be enough to stir his own power in the right direction, and start to heal him. It’d be nice to actually be able to sleep tonight without being drawn back to wakening every time that he twitched and moved his ribs, too.

 

Although, even as the guy that let him in looked him over, and asked his name it didn’t really bare thinking about.

 

Giles gave him his own once-over, and a false name, even though he doubted it would make a difference even if he called himself Jack. He was kind of pretty, in a looks-given-almost-away kind of way. And if Giles had encountered him a few years ago, then he was sure that he would have been one of those model-pretty blokes. These days he was far too thin; cheeks sunken and showing too much bone, and eyes overly emphasised, and the taint of dark magick which was woven into the structure of the house made him feel a little light-headed, and even more than a little sick.

 

He found that he had to bite the inside of his lip to distract himself. The more that the bloke talked, the harder Giles had to bite in order to keep his attention on what he was being told, even as his mind was doing it’s best to wander back to the pain that his body was in. And it was only as he bit hard enough to taste the copper tang of his own blood, that the guy, Steve, Rupert had gathered his name was, pushed a couple of small blue pills into his hand, and sent him in the direction of one the rooms.

 

When he’d asked what they were the only reply that he got was ‘ _painkiller_ ’. Giles found that he didn’t actually doubt that, although he doubted that was the only thing that they would kill. Certainly they would be amongst the sort of thing that would slaughter his common sense for the night. And more than likely a few brain-cells if they were taken long term too.

 

Although as he breathed in and felt another flare of pain, he was beginning to think that such a thing may just be a reasonable compromise.

 

But as he walked along the cold wooden floor, to where the empty room that had been indicated to him was he couldn’t really keep from considering his less than tenable position. In places like this those that had a greater _control_ over themselves occasionally came, to pick out what was basically a free meal ticket.

 

He, the son of a Watcher, never mind that he was trying as hard as he could to avoid following in his fathers footsteps, was at such a stage where he was willing to offer his neck in order to get a couple of nights decent sleep. He knew that it was set out in a contract that was honoured on pain of death, that none of the _subjects_ could be killed, but that knowledge was doing little to assuage his fears.

 

The door lacked several essential things. Such as a handle, and a lock. In the cool dark he scowled at it, thinking, even now when his mind still wanted to run from facts, and eventually stirred himself into action again, wincing as his ribs complained about the period of inactivity.

 

Not much difference from their usual complaint about activity these days either, he thought, as he slipped a finger into the hole where a handle had once been, and pulled the door open. It came free with a little effort, and he raised the candle to look briefly about the room, before setting it down and digging in his bag to pull out a knife which he drove as deeply into the heavy wooden frame as he could after pushing the door closed. It wouldn’t be enough to stop anything of prehuman strength, but at least it would keep his own species out.

 

And that was an exertion which his ribs really, really didn’t like.

 

“Christ on crutches,” he closed his eyes and snarled the words to himself, as he rested his back against the wall, gathering himself together enough to move again.

 

Only now, that he felt a little safer, even though he knew that in reality he was far from it, did he dry-swallow the pills. The effect was almost instantaneous, lifting him free from the chains of pain running through him, and splitting him off from the fear and concern that had been a constant underlying factor for the last couple of days. With that, Giles made up his mind to ask Steve who the hell it was that he got his goods from.

 

Of course there was no power on.

 

But it _was_ warm. No draught to snuff his candle out, and leave him as helpless as a baby in a womb, even though he knew enough magick to be able to relight it easily enough, and without exerting himself, under usual circumstances. And the place wasn’t impregnated with the scent of mould or anything like that, either. In fact, he could see how, under different circumstances such as being hooked into the grid and being tenanted by humans, it could have become a relatively comfortable family home.

 

And finally, it felt as though he were standing on a reasonably solid surface again. Opening his eyes again, he crouched and grabbed the candle. A small twinge of pain still got through his shield of metaphysical foam as he straightened again, but it was nothing compared to what it had been. Quietly, he raised the candle again, and looked about the room.

 

No windows, either, although the bed which was standing against the far side of the room looked comfortable enough. There was an old-fashioned feather quilt on it, and another blanket which was folded down to halfway. And the pillow didn’t look all that bad either.

 

Not really what he’d expected, then.

 

Pulling out his driest sweatshirt, he tugged his damp one off over his head, snarling at the action, the flash of pain from which almost threatened to return him to a very sobering reality. Pausing to gather himself once more, he allowed his gaze to drop to his chest, and stared dully at the various mottled shades of yellow, blue, and an almost black purple that decorated him at the moment. Ah, shit, but those bastards had worked him over good. Bracing himself against the bed with one hand, he undid his jeans and dropped them to the ground, kicking them to the side. His boxers were still dry enough after a day outside in the misting rain though.

 

After a few moments though, his shirt joined his pants on the ground, and he carefully pulled his dry shirt on over his head, before opening his bag, fishing out a couple of other things that he tucked under the pillow, and dropping the bag so that he could nudge it under the bed with a toe.

 

And with even more care, he lay down.

 

Gods, but the mattress actually felt good under him. And the way that his head sunk back into the pillow was really rather reminiscent of home. And there, he had gone and called it home again, when it wasn’t, and hadn’t been since he’d hit the street five months ago.

 

Moving on every week at the very least, it wasn’t overly hard to stay ahead of anyone that may have been searching for him.

 

Closing his eyes, he tried not to breath in too deeply, for fear of the pain overcoming the drugs anyway, and tried to still his mind enough to put a couple of wards in place. He managed one weak one, to alert him if anyone- _anything_ tried to gain entry, but anything else was beyond him, though, well and truly. He was too exhausted to be able to focus himself like that.

 

Then he opened his eyes again and glared at the candle for a heartbeat, until it gave into his will and went out. At least he was still capable of that, because he was not going to be moving again for the rest of the night.

 

Although a couple of nights here should see him right. And if he held his breath, hoped for the best (he’d given up praying a good five months ago, too) and kept his cross close, then he might just get out of this none the worse for wear.

 

His final thought, as he drifted in a fragmented sleep, was that at least dreams were free.

 

_In spite of his own knowledge, he was frightened. Even at his young age, he was grown-up enough to admit that to himself._

_All the old bastards high talk about glorious destinies, and the honour of Watching, he’d been trying to shape him into a younger clone of himself. But that wasn’t a revelation – he’d kinda known that all along. But that didn’t make his old man’s reaction, when he’d told him he was more interested in men then woman any less frightening._

_His jaw still ached when he moved it, and even against the cold night air his cheek was still warm to the touch. The old man hadn’t ever hesitated to yell before, but he’d never hit him._

_And it had been a blow from out of no-where, too, delivered in response to his insistence that it wasn’t some phase which he was going to grow out of. He’d pinpointed himself and his feelings last year, had spent a year coming to terms with himself. And he’d thought too much of the old man to want to have to lie to him._

_Sure, he’d drawn back looking just as shocked, as appalled at his own actions as his son surely was, and he’d apologised straight away too, but that didn’t change what had happened._

_He’d turned away with a hand held to his cheek, trying to keep the burning in the corners of his eyes instead of leaking out, God-damn-it, and crept up the stairs, head lowered in much the same manner as a beaten dog, even as he’d set his heart in stone._

_He couldn’t stay here. He knew that now._

_It was just after three in the morning, when Giles slipped out the door, with a single heavily loaded bag on his back._

_Now, the street stretched before him, bathed in the eerie white-light glow of a low full moon. Yeah, sure, he knew that things weren’t going to be easy for a while. He knew that he had every right to be afraid. But the fear only served to sharpen him._

_And the chill air felt, smelled, and even tasted of freedom._


	2. Chapter 1 - On Pain Of Living (And Pain Of Death)

** Chapter 1 - On Pain Of Living (And Pain Of Death) **

“I come alive, when I’m falling down    
I let myself go, til I hit the ground.”  
 -The Used – I Come Alive

****

He wasn’t sure what the time was when he finally woke from dreams which weren’t quite remembered. The only thing which told him that it was possibly daylight outside now was a tiny chink of dim, broken light which just managed to creep under the door, although God knew where exactly that came from in the first place, in a place like this.

 

Well, that and the almost impossible to notice slight lightning around the extreme edges of the heavy shutter which was over the window. The pathetically dull light glinted off of several nail head along the frame, obviously there to keep it shut. And it didn’t take a genius to figure that that wouldn’t have been all that was holding it.

 

After a few minutes spent simply laying on his back, staring up at a dull ceiling, his slowly turning thoughts finally lighted on a decision. Rolling onto his side, and discovering that the movement didn’t hurt half as much as he’d been prepared for, he fisted his hand in the direction of the knife, and with a muttered word pulled his hand up into the air and back towards himself. Holding his breath, the knife slowly dragged through the air, until he lost it at the halfway point and it fell to the ground with a clatter that was painful to his currently oversensitive hearing.

 

Closing his eyes again, he tucked his head against his chest, a touch of despair creeping inside of him. A few weeks ago an action like that would have been effortless. And a few months ago such precautions wouldn’t have been necessary. Times like this, he really regretted his decision, made on the spur of the moments as it had been.

 

Common sense told him to grab the knife, even though that would mean actually getting up to do so. Being in a place like this without it… _well, probably actually wouldn’t make a difference if push came to shove._ But at least it gave his that sense of false security.

 

He drew a deep, slow breath, and again considered the option of turning back towards home, with his tail between his legs, which had been another one of those recurring thoughts since the night he’d just about been made to eat a few of his own teeth. Sure he’d been upset, but all that was keeping him away was his own pride, now. And reduced to bedding down in a place like this, wasn’t like he had much of that left, either.

 

The old man might half kill him, but at least he’d nurse him back to health first. And if he would up grounded, it would only be until school started again, _and_ he’d be comfortable and warm, and wouldn’t have to wonder where his next meal was coming from. Again, not for the first time in recent memory he realised that he was talking himself into rather than out of heading back home again, and in much the same manner as he’d managed to convince himself that he should leave in the first place.

 

Not that he would be up for the trip back for the next few days at the very least. Although at a push, he could probably spend today gathering himself and focusing inward on healing, and be ready to leave tomorrow. He was ignoring the easy option of course, which was to get hold of a phone and tell someone where exactly he was.

 

But the Council would probably push him to talk to a therapist or something first, before sending him on his way, and that was something that he could do without. Besides, if it was a matter of only holding onto a tiny bit of the pride that he’d left with, then he’d rather arrive back on his own two feet.

 

Uncurling slowly he stretched, easing out aching muscles and decided to reserve judgment on whether he actually felt any better for once he’d started moving around properly again. With even more reluctance he drew in a deep breath to brace himself, and found that it didn’t hurt quite as much as it had last thing yesterday, which meant that something must have been going right.

 

No longer quite so shattered. No longer in as much pain as he had been.

 

Not able to bother with fishing out his Zippo, he waved a hand in the direction of the candle casting a tiny breath of magick, only to find that that was still pushing the limit as it allowed a brand-new wack of pain to shoot through his side. Curling back in on himself, he held his sides and only just bit back the cry which threatened, although he doubted it would be the first uttered within these walls.

 

It felt like an age before this one passed, and he could breathe again. But with the return of his ability to do so, he forced himself to uncurl and sit up, all in one smooth movement trying to lessen the pain a little more, and with his lip clamped between his teeth.

 

Pulling up his shirt to check, however, he found the angry bruises which had been there were at less than half the size that they had been the night before. With a small grunt, he swung his legs off the bed, dropped his shirt back down, and stood, grateful to discover that the nausea which had accompanied the action ever since the scuffle was lacking.

 

Then he snorted to himself, and cursed the action for all of the stupidity behind it. Who the hell was he kidding, here on his own as he was? It hadn’t been a fucking scuffle, it had been a bloody thrashing. Nothing more, and nothing less. And he’d been bloody lucky to have been able to walk away from the scene afterwards.

 

Or, not so much walk away as limp, but still, at least he’d done it under his own power. That was something he’d been proud of at the time. That he’d managed to do so, and without uttering a sound to boot.

 

Still was proud of it, for that matter. It had been damned hard, considering it had had felt as though bits and pieces of him had kept on phasing out of the dimension that _he_ was in, and that what bits of him were left in this plane felt as though they’d had a truck run over them.

 

He managed three cautious steps before the vertigo hit him this time, forcing him to his knees on the floor, to sit with his head on them, never mind the way that it set his ribs on fire again. There was no-one around to see it, but still he bit back against the tears of pain which threatened. Minutes crept past like hours, and when his gaze cleared from white back to normal, he realised that the knife which he’d been trying for was a few centimetres shy of his hand. Taking a shallow breath he reached for it and the movement alone was enough to make him lose his shaky balance and bring him to the ground, room spinning around him.

 

The next thing that he was conscious of was the ward that he’d set screaming in his head making a pain that had already been intolerable into something that was completely unbearable. Seconds after that (or it could have been days) he felt one hand fishing under his legs, and the other tucking around his back, and up through his arm as he was lifted back to the bed. Again, the movement made his ribs scream although this time the difference was that he gave voice to it.

 

The pillow was lifted, and a hand tucked his knife under it, and he forced his eyes open and made himself grit his teeth until the room stopped it’s almost casual circling of him. Of course it was the house master.

 

Well, he could always try to play on human sympathy. And as the man tucked a hand behind his head to tilt it forward and plant another couple of those pills between his teeth, then raised a whiskey bottle to his lips to wash them down, it seemed like a more and more reasonable option.

 

He took one mouthful, lifted his hand to hold the bottle there, and swiped another couple before letting it be drawn away. He closed his eyes again, for a few moments needing the time in order to regroup into as much of one piece as he could. And still the presence that he could feel beside him wasn’t moving away.

 

“Thanks,” he managed eventually, instantly hating how low, how weak his voice sounded. The presence turned back towards the door, and Giles forced his eyes open again, against the effects of the drugs and whiskey.

 

“Wait,” he said, and the man looked back over his shoulder, “You. Someone like you – bound to know the Council’s number. Please.”

 

“Rest,” was the only reply that he was granted. And, as exhausted as he felt he was powerless to do much else. He closed his eyes, and seconds later the world drifted away again.

 

It felt late, and the conversation which was coming to him in fragments ought to have been alarming, but he didn’t have the energy to react. A painful cough was shaken loose from somewhere deep inside of him, and he wasn’t overly surprised at the metallic tang that seeped into his mouth afterwards. The voices outside were soft, but still he could catch a few words.

 

“…past it… too long. A rest… now.”

 

“… care. Don’t get it… won’t ever… All…know is that…now.”

 

“But…”

 

“But nothing,” the other voice was raised now, making it impossible to miss anything, “It’s not your bloody responsibility, and it’s nothing to do you either, come to that. I’m grateful for what you have done here, but at the end of it all; it’s really none of your damned business. I can’t let it happen.”

 

“But surely,”

 

“No,” the other voice cut the housemaster off sharply, and then lowered again, “I’m going to, and I’m going to do it right now; while there’s still a chance at life.”

 

The door opened again, and a silhouetted figure paused in it, seeming to look towards him. The candlelight from the hallway seemed blinding, and he closed his eyes cringing away from it. Seconds later, a cool hand rested on his forehead, and he struggled to contain the convulsion which twisted through him. He felt a magick which almost felt familiar twisting at his own, soothing it and as consequence soothing him.

 

“Sleep,” a soft voice spoke to him, and he couldn’t stop his body from obeying the order which had felt more like a suggestion.

 

He drifted.

 

The world, when it brushed against his conscious  was all harsh angles, and sharp pain, and light that was too bright or darkness that looked like it had been there since the dawn of time, and the cold, which had crept through to his bones. He was constantly shivering, and yet he was sweating like a dog in the middle of summer, something that he knew was definitely not a good thing.

 

And still, whenever he drifted that close to the surface of reality, there was that voice which told him, time and again; sleep. And his body demanded that he obey.

 

When the world came back to him, properly, it was to find he was in a bed that was far more comfortable than the one which he’d been in at the house, with moonlight filtering through a small window on the far side, and several blankets pulled up over him. A half-empty jug of water swum into focus as he slowly turned his head from one side, to the other trying to work out where exactly he was. On the plus side of life, he felt human again. Breathing didn’t even twinge anything, and he felt rested, rather than completely wiped.

 

Eyeing the jug of water, he went to sit up so that he could drink from it, and found himself stopped short by a sharp tugging resistance around his neck. Raising a shaky hand, he felt around his throat, and found something which felt suspiciously like a collar. Quietly, he traced a hand around to the back of it, and found a chain, which chased backwards lead to the head of the bed. And only then, did he wonder where the hell it was that he’d wound up, and why.

 

“You’re awake properly this time, I see,” the voice which stirred him from a pathetic half-doze just before dawn was almost soft.

 

Opening his eyes fully, he found himself face to face with the person that was keeping him here, a man with brown hair and eyes, and a lined face, and who held himself like a predator would have. He had even tried his magic to get out of the trap that he was in, but it hadn’t done anything apart from exhaust him even more. And now he was face to face with something that every sense was screaming at him was a vampire.

 

He didn’t reply, unwill to allow his captor to draw him into anything that could resemble a conversation. If this thing was going to kill him, then he’d prefer it sooner rather than later, thank-you very much. There was no point in pretending that he was going to get out of this. And maybe, if he pissed this thing off enough, then it would be sooner than whatever soon was going to be.

 

“Do you know what day it is? Any idea how long you’ve been out of it?” He hadn’t even blinked, but the monster was tilting his head from one side to the other, looking at his eyes, and with an ice-cold hand on the underside of his chin.

 

“No,” his reply was reluctant at best, the answer forced out of him by a morbid curiosity.

 

“I took you from the house just over a month ago. You were on the border of death.”

 

“Then why the hell am I not dead?” not that he was entirely sure that he wanted the answer. After all, he’d heard the stories of vampires keeping people on hand for a steady supply of blood; although he’d never heard of a vampire going to any great lengths to save that blood supply on top of it.

 

“I’ve been keeping you alive.”

 

“But the house…”

 

“The power in a place such as that is enough to repair superficial damage, and nothing more. I’ve been nursing you on my own blood, a little every evening. It’s drawn you back from the brink of death, and healed the internal wounds done to you. If I were to have been a few hours later, then you would have been dead, regardless.”

 

“Why?” That was the only reply that came to mind. If he wanted to get out of this situation, then his best bet was by understanding it, first.

 

It raised it’s free hand and pressed a pair of fingers to his temple, “Go ahead, turn in to yourself. I haven’t bound enough of your power to stop you from doing that much.”

 

At those words, he felt violated. That this thing had bound his power… well, that explained why he couldn’t _do_ anything. At his hesitation, it spoke again, “Your power was trying to stir itself into overdrive. That would have killed you, too, if I hadn’t locked it down. And besides, couldn’t risk you running, could I?”

 

The _why_ was on the tip of his tongue once again; but some instinct which was still rational was telling him that it wouldn’t be a good idea to anger the vampire any more than he could avoid. And so, ten minutes later, he finally managed to convince himself that it was safe enough to close his eyes in its presence and he turned inwards. He could feel it instantly, something dark and deadly and beckoning, curled in the corner of his mind, at the edges of his power.

 

“What the hell…” he gasped, as he struggled to, and succeeded in opening his eyes, coming up far quicker than he ever should have.

 

“It’s deep magick; that’s what you’re feeling.”

 

He felt sick.

 

“But that’s fucking impossible. You, a thing like you, you’re a monster. A demon never had a soul,” he tried to draw away from the hand that flicked out towards him, but was stopped short by the sharp reminder of the collar around his neck, “and deep magick… that’s soul to soul.”

 

_“No. It’s not, and it never was. Deep magick is power to power, that’s why it’s called what it is. And I’ve seen stranger things in my two thousand years on this earth.”_

_He closed his eyes tightly, as though by blocking sight he could also stop himself from hearing this things lies. He didn’t know what sort of magick it had worked on him, but he knew that what it was saying couldn’t be anything other than lies; although to what purpose he had no idea. Maybe it was as simple as that it wanted something that it could hold over the Council’s head._

_Although if it was telling him the truth, that he’d dropped out of sight over a month ago, and no-one had made any effort to track him this time, then maybe he finally had no-one left on his side. Although thinking about it as rationally as he could… that sort of time frame seemed a little extreme, for no one to do anything. And he didn’t know that no-one was making an effort to get the errant Watcher’s son back under thumb, because he wasn’t out there._

_The creature chuckled, as he fought the desire to open his eyes so that he could see what it was doing._

_“Closing your eyes isn’t going to make me vanish.”_

He didn’t care to keep track of how long he’d been here. The window lightened to allow him sight of the stars and moon at night, and darkened during the day so that he could see nothing, but he couldn’t be bothered with a mental tally, a task that he was sure would do nothing more than depress him further.

 

Once a day, just after the stars came out, the creature had started letting him up for a few hours, to stretch his legs and muscles once it was sure that he could handle it. A little later this extended to a couple of hours before the sun rose as well. He’d become as nocturnal as his captor. It fed him human food, occasionally gave him hints of the world outside, and it still hadn’t tried to force him into subservience with a spell or anything of the sort.

 

He didn’t know what it was waiting for. He hadn’t seen a door to the outside, although a few times he’d been given free reign, and when he’d tried to smash the windows by putting a lamp, then a chair, then various other items through them all that he’d done was give himself a throbbing shoulder, and an aching hand. And the second time he’d given it a shot, he’d realised that the thing was standing in the doorway watching, when it began to laugh at him.

 

He didn’t know what the thing wanted from him, and he certainly wasn’t going to call it by the name it had given him, a name that seemed to human to fit a monster.

 

_“I know your name, but I haven’t even introduced myself yet.”_

_It lowered itself until it was sitting on the edge of the bed. If he’d been able to reach it, then he’d have tackled it, and decapitated it with his bare hands, anything to get out of this fucking situation._

_“Where are my manners?” It continued as though it hadn’t stopped, “You can call me Ethan. Ethan Rayne, it’s as close to my true name as any.”_

The first time it had given him the opportunity to tackle it; he’d done so, only to find his hand twisted up behind his back, forced so far that he couldn’t help but cry out a heartbeat later and half a minute after that he’d been tied back to his spot, and left there for the next couple of days. He was surprised that the thing hadn’t run out of patience with him, yet.

 

Then there were those nights when it came back just before sunrise, with hands warmed by the blood of others, and he’d known not to push his luck. He never looked at it when he could help it, never spoke to it unless forced to, certainly never referred to it by name. And while it was a monster, he knew that nothing could go on indefinitely; something would have to give.

 

He just hoped that it would be to his benefit when it did.

 


	3. The Patience of a Saint (And the Restraint of a Monster)

** Chapter 2 – The Patience of a Saint (And the Restraint of a Monster) **

“I can lie but the truth isn’t there  
 I can die but there’s no-one to care”  
 -Bloodbound – Nosferatu

 

Closing his eyes he tried to will the world away. It was nearly dawn, and he was beginning to tire, his body having grown adapt to its nocturnal patterns. And _it_ had let him up just after sunset tonight, and hadn’t been since. Not for the first time he wondered what would happen if it was dusted with him still in here. Whether his powers be loosed, or a door would appear somewhere, or what. Maybe he would starve to death, a slow drawn out death.

 

With his powers he felt certain that getting out of here would have been easy enough, but without them it was impossible.

 

 Well, at least it was something to think about.

 

He was restless, that’s what it was. He hated being housebound.

 

A sound startled him, and he spun from his contemplation of the wall to see it standing there. He was almost used to the silent manner in which it came in most of the time these days, although considering the variance from the usual routine tonight; it almost startled him into speaking to it.

 

“Have a pleasant evening?” It raised an eyebrow and spoke, almost as though it had read his mind.

 

Giles bit his lip, and turned his back on it.

 

“Ignoring me isn’t going to change facts,” a warm hand came to rest on the side of his neck and a thumb traced slowly up it. At the thought of what had to go towards making this creature feel like a human he found himself tensing.

 

And he couldn’t take it any longer, this time.

 

He’d though it would be something in it that snapped, but it was him. He spun, and moving with a turn of speed that seemed to surprise it, managed to land a solid punch to its stomach and another fist to its chin. It shook its head from one side to the other, and then he was back against the wall with his head spinning and white flashing at the edges of his vision. Then the air was rushing past him as he was thrown, and struck the edge of the bed hard enough that he knew there would be a black bruise forming in a few hours. Drawing his lips back from his teeth in a savage snarl, he fought to regain his footing although he wasn’t sure what he was planning on following up with.

 

That turned out to be something that he needn’t have worried about, as Ethan... _it,_  he hurriedly corrected himself, it, caught him by the hair and drew itself up to full height, dragging the boy with him, until he was forced to stand on the tips of his toes to try and take some of the pain away. The thing held him there, and met his gaze for what felt like an age, before letting go and shoving him back with the other hand. This time he landed squarely on his back, and before he could go to scrabble up again, a deep guttural snarl made him look up. It dared him to try his luck one last time, as its eyes flashed between jet-black and the usual predatory amber.

 

He didn’t move, didn’t blink for fear of missing his own death. If this was it, then he wanted to meet it with eyes wide open. His heart was racing, and instinct still screamed at him, fight or flight. But he’d tried fighting, and look how well that hadn’t gone down. And there was only so far that a person could run in a closed house.

 

“I’ve tried being patient with you. I’ve had the patience of a bloody saint, tried to give you time to come to you own conclusions. Tried to give you time to talk yourself around, to let your own power show you where the fact of the matter lays. But no more, I’m through with it.”

 

He raised a hand and that damned collar which he’d come to despise settled itself around his neck again. There was a little more slack on the chain these days, and he’d found not long into his enforced rest that it gave him enough slack that he could roll over, but a fat lot of use that would be to him now. He felt sick, as the monster took a slow approach, and wondered if he would perhaps be able to throw an arm up in time to keep the thing from his neck. But then, why bother? Even if he could manage it a couple of times, it was still a game that he was bound to lose.

 

He made his mind up, and dropped his arms back against the bed, tilting his head slightly to the side.

 

“Go ahead and kill me, then. End this stupid game, because I swear to you, dead is the only way that you’ll ever control me.”

 

“Hmm. And here I thought you understood, Rupert, it’s not your death that I desire,” the thing closed its eyes for a heartbeat, and half-inclined its head in his direction, before opening them again, coming to a halt beside the bed, “mayhap I should have made things clearer, not allowed you the freedom that I have.”

 

 _What the hell do you want from me?_ The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he bit them back, falling back on his old habit of ignoring the thing as much as he possibly could. But still, as much as he wanted to close his eyes to shut the thing out again properly, some small shred of self-preservation kept him from doing so. And then the thing settled its knees on the bed over him, and raising hands that were still warm, undid the first button of the shirt that he was wearing, and drew a fingertip against his bare chest underneath. And with a wave of nausea, he understood completely, what this thing was going to try.

 

Its gaze didn’t flick from his as it undid the rest of the buttons, and went to push his shirt back off of his arms. And at that point his resolve broke once again; but he couldn’t let simply let this happen. Even if he only convinced it to kill him instead, that had to be better then what it had in mind.

 

“Please, don’t. I’ll… I’ll give you anything else. Just please, not this, show some compassion, some…” he realised what he was about to say, and pulled himself up short, tried to rethink his words, but couldn’t drag his thoughts into order.

 

And it realised what he had been about to say, too. It chuckled at the dark joke.

 

“Show some humanity?” It finished for him, pushing his shirt back off of his arms, “You were going to tell me to show some humanity, when you’re so fond of calling me a monster?”

 

Its right hand reached out and it traced the black mark that it had carved into the flesh of the underside of his arm, just above his elbow, and it gave him a smile that made him wish that he could curl up in himself much the way he’d done in those weeks after the thrashing that he’d been given.

 

“Please, Ethan, please…” for the first time since he’d been given it he used its name, in a weak attempt at placating it.

 

“Tell me,” it drew a fingernail down his chest, stopping to graze a nipple, and tease it to hardness, and he cursed his own body for its response, “exactly why a monster should care for the pleas of a human. Tell me why I should care one whit for those empty words echoing from your mouth. In fact, if you ask me I’ve been too _human_ to you already.”

 

Its hand drew over to the other side of his chest, and Rupert was expecting a repeat performance, but this time the nipple was pinched sharply between two fingernails, sharply enough to draw a gasp from him.

 

“My mark is on your skin; my blood is in your veins. Your power was a part of mine, ever since it stirred, and believe me, I did feel it stir. I’d have come for you sooner, but you were under guardianship, which you broke of your own accord when you left of your own free will. And, on top of that, you owe me your life, let’s not forget that. You were mine by rights since the day that you came into your own.”

 

“You do this, and as soon as I get the chance I’ll kill myself. If what you say is true, then that’ll be the end of you, too.”

 

It raised a hand, and rested two fingers against his temple, before nudging at his power which had been locked down for so long that it felt like sunshine after the six month Antarctic night. The rush that it sent through him, had him squirming and gasping, and he tried to ignore any other effects, tried to rally his power to throw Ethan off, but it hadn’t freed enough of that to allow such a thing. It wasn’t that stupid.

 

And this time when it smiled, the expression seemed almost soft, “No, you won’t. This…” it drummed its fingers against the side of his head, “this here wouldn’t allow it.”

 

“Please, just let me go,” he stopped fighting to keep the note of despair from his voice, stoped trying to keep his tone from cracking. Maybe, if he gave the right emotion of submission, without actually…

 

“You want more freedom, I can do that. All that you need to do is acknowledge me properly, for what I am. Seal the bond, and tie yourself to me, and once the after-effects lessen, you can have your daylight back.”

 

“Never,” he snarled back. To tie himself to a monster… well, he would never do that. It was that simple.

 

“Never say never, young one,” it muttered, drawing a hand down lower, to play a hand over his cock through his trousers, still half-hard from the kick of power that he’d just been given.

 

Accepting the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to talk his way out of this, he bit his lip and resolved not to make a sound. He knew enough about the limitations of deep magick to know that he still had a shot at a clean escape if he didn’t acknowledge if the way that it demanded. He was _never_ going to call this thing his master, or his other. There may have been no way out of this part of things, but he’d be damned before he ever tied himself to this thing. And nor was he going to give this thing the satisfaction of knowing that he was scared, or anything else that went in hand with it.

 

Stupid, since no-one could predict the future, but still, he’d never imagined that things would turn out quite like this when he’d first stolen off into the night. Certainly if he had, he’d never have gone.

 

He was snapped crudely from his thoughts as Eth… it, he caught himself again, it settled back onto its heels and undid the button on his jeans, and tugged the zip down. Again, he cursed his body as the flood of adrenalin and hormones had his cock standing. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head to the side, away, as his cheeks flushed with a morbid mixture of embarrassment, self-loathing, and whatever else made a male blush.

 

It didn’t escape its notice either, as it slid itself backwards off the bed, standing so that it could tug his pants off completely. Leaning forward, it rested a hand that was already beginning to cool slowly against his cheek. Against the warmth, it already felt like ice, but he restrained himself from shivering.

 

Silently, it took a couple of steps closer, offering him a half-smile, and again he reacted on instinct. Grasping the headboard with both hands, he brought both feet together and kicked out with all the power and speed that he could put behind it. And all that it did was grin fully, and catch one leg with each hand, pushing them down against the mattress. He supposed he ought to have been grateful that it didn’t actually seem out to hurt him otherwise it probably would have seriously hurt him right then.

 

“Nice try,” it said, raising an eyebrow, and changing its grasp of his ankles to one hand, it reached down with the other and grabbed a bottle of whiskey out from the bedside cabinet. If he’d realised that _that_ had been there, then it definitely wouldn’t have lasted long. Still using one hand, it flicked the cap off, and held the bottle down to him.

 

“Had enough of your fun, now?” it asked, still holding the bottle down.

 

He thought about grabbing it, raised a hand a few millimetres on the thought of _why the hell not,_ and then hesitated.

 

“What the hell have you done to it?”

 

“ _Think,”_ it was sounding almost annoyed with him, now, “for once; why would I bother doing anything to it, when anything that I might want, I can simply take from you anyway? And why would I give you anything that would dull you?”

 

Trick questions, questions that he couldn’t find an answer to.

 

“It’s a touch of human relaxation, is all that it is; although maybe, again, I’m being too human towards you?” It finished the sentence on a question, and with a raised eyebrow, and he snatched at the bottle before it could be retracted. Damned if he wasn’t going to make sure that he remembered as little of this as possible.

 

“Thanks,” he spoke to it reluctantly, so that it didn’t snatch it back away again. Although he needn’t have bothered, a few deep drags and he found that the bottle was completely empty. There hadn’t even been enough to set the room spinning temporarily, let alone to blur the night for him.

 

And only now did it release his ankles, take the empty bottle back, and set it down to the side. It rolled its shoulders back, and stripping its own clothing, tossed both pants and top over to the side. Without a prompt, he flicked his gaze over it, and went cold inside again. All of his self conviction that he’d worked himself up to while finishing off that bottle, his attempt at telling himself that maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, fled. It was standing naked in front of him, and reality was finally tearing at him with cold fingers.

 

It pressed a hand to his shoulder, and nudged him towards flipping over with it. At his hesitation, it gave him that hint of a feral grin again, “It’ll be easier for you, I’m sure. But then… maybe you’re going to exceed my expectations.”

 

He _knew_ what that meant. And again, it was one of the last things that he wanted. Half-raising his head, to loose the collar as much as possible, he rolled over and settled himself on his hands ands knees, tucking his forehead against the pillow, and sinking his teeth into it. He was still determined that he wouldn’t make a sound throughout, even if that was to be his only victory.

 

And Ethan’s now cold weight came to rest behind him, and he could feel its cold cock nudging against him. He’d told himself that all he could do was get it over quickly, now, but it seemed that he couldn’t even do that, as it curled a cool hand around his cock, and leaning down grazed it’s teeth against the side of his throat, nudging his power again as it did so. And between all of those contrasting elements; the warmth of his own power flooding him again, the adrenalin at its teeth, and the chill of its hand, he was completely hard again instantly.

 

And that dark corner in his mind stirred into life, sending a wave of something that he didn’t care to identify through him, too. With that, he found himself wondering for the first time whether its claim of deep magic was actually possible.

 

It drew the skin of his cock down with its hand, toyed with a nipple as it drew its tongue over the tiny scratch that it had marked on his neck, and then traced a hand down his spine until it came to a pause at the top of his ass. It may not have been taking it’s time with him, but nor was it racing through it, either. If it had been racing it would have already slammed him down and would have been fucking him, he wasn’t that naive that he didn’t know that. And a tiny part of him couldn’t help but feel grateful that while it was forcing him into this, it wasn’t _forcing_ him.

 

Its fingertip came down a little further, and the nail drifted over the sensitive flesh between his cheeks and at the entrance to his ass. If he hadn’t had his teeth firmly sunk into the pillow then he knew that he would have been breaking his vow to himself. But still, it was only a single fingertip that was drifting over the delicate skin, teasing a few millimetres in and out. And again, he wished that it would hurry up and get it over and done with.

 

Just as he thought that, as though it had read his mind again, the hand twisted and that cold finger pushed into him up to what felt like the second knuckle. Closing his eyes he whimpered into the pillow, knowing that it would have heard the sound, but taking some small heart from the fact that it didn’t react to the sound.

 

He ordered himself to breath, and as he finally started taking even breaths through his nose again, another finger slipped in beside the first. This one he managed to take in silence, even as it worked both of those fingers back and forth, easing the tension and loosening the muscles which were trying to clamp tight.

 

_Christ, but it hurts._

And then the movement stopped, as it stilled its hand, and flicked a couple of fingers out from his cock to rub at his balls, in what seemed like an attempt to distract him. That didn’t do much of anything, but the hit that it sent towards his locked magick this time, had him releasing his death bite on the pillow, and giggling as the world spun around him. But still, reality came back again, and all that he knew was those two fingers working back and forth inside of him. But that didn’t matter any more.

 

In fact, there was little of anything that mattered any more. His brain clung to the fact that for those few moments it actually felt good, although his pride still clung to his determination not to give up a single word. As a third finger joined the other two, the world fell away again for a while, and all the he knew was the sensation of that inside of him, and that it felt right in a way that nothing had before.

 

The hand that had been playing over his cock had obviously drifted, because it was grasping at his face, and tilting his head to one side for a kiss, tongue slipping between his teeth. A few moments earlier, his only thought would have been whether he could safely bite it off, but all that he did now was push his own tongue up against its. He groaned, and he knew that it had heard it, as he felt it grinning. And then all of those fingers slipped out at the same time, and it nudged against his power again, as it thrust downwards with its hips, and its cock took their place.

 

“Shit,” he snarled, as his body tightened against the size of it. Damn, but that stung. Again, reality tried to clam him, but something inside him shrugged it off, as it paused and gave his body a chance to adapt. Then, less than a minute later it began to move against him, and in him, a steady rolling of its hips as it set up a slow, drawn rhythm.

 

His own erection had flagged over the last few minutes, distraction and pain countering the effect of hormones and power. But then, with one hard thrust downwards it hit something inside of him that brought it back, and sent a wash of pleasure through him. And with another couple of rolls of its hips, it stiffened against his back as something cold shot up inside of him, and seconds later, as its hand tightened around him and gave his cock a couple of drawn out pumps, he came too, shooting his load down into its hand, and over the sheets.

 

He was half expecting it to let him up afterwards, but instead it drew slowly out of him, an act that caused his body to shiver, and came to rest beside him, with an arm draped against his side, and drew the blankets which had been kicked down up over the both of them, and closed it’s eyes. A few minutes later, when he knew that he should have been thinking about getting his own back, the exhaustion of his own body dragged him down to sleep.

 


	4. Behind the Pact (And Thrown to the Hounds)

** Chapter 3 – Behind the Pact (And Thrown to the Hounds) **

“There's a Hell that has been building  
From the moment we first met”  
-The Protomen – The Hounds

 

His body ached deep inside, his shoulder throbbed, and his neck was stiff. And for a few moments, after he came around to in what felt like late afternoon he wasn’t sure where he was any more.

 

Ethan’s cold weight against him brought it all back quickly enough though, as much as he wished it wouldn’t. For a few moments he managed to distract himself wondering if this was what sleeping next to a corpse would be like. He shocked himself with the bitter sound of his startled laugh; of course it was.

 

After all, it was cold, and its chest was no longer rising and falling in a sick mockery of life.

 

Closing his eyes, and trying to block the world out again he dropped his head back down, and moving slowly so as not to disturb the thing behind him, put as much space between it and himself as he could. Which, considering the collar wasn’t that much but at least it was better than nothing. After all, there was little else that he could do, still tied down as he was.

 

What he really wanted to do was drag himself through to the bathroom and stand under a scalding shower, scrubbing until he didn’t feel quite so tainted. And then, maybe then, _it_ would relax its bloody security around this place; give him the chance that he needed to bolt.

 

Just because _this_ had happened, didn’t mean he ever needed to think about it ever again, and if he could make a clean break from this place then he could leave it at that. No one else needed to know what had happened, he could gloss it over.

 

A while longer lost in his own thought, and he became aware that it had raised its own head and was staring at him, those cold brown eyes boring into him.

 

He wanted to scream and yell at it, wanted to tear a strip from it, but that wouldn’t get him anywhere. He had to keep it together, and to do that he had to distance himself, even disconnect himself if possible, from his feeling and emotions.

 

He needed… he needed a shit.

 

Almost as though it had read his mind, it reached over with a single hand, grasped a certain point of the collar and muttered something in a language that he didn’t know. At that point the collar separated, and he was up off the bed and out of the room as fast as he could drag himself, his body feeling heavier and clumsier than ever.

 

After he’d done what he had to (and not without some pain) he turned the shower up as high as it would go, grabbed a towel which he dumped over the edge of the sink, and stepped under the water, wincing as the high pressure hit aching muscles and darkened bruises. Pulling the shower door closed behind him, he gingerly lowered himself to the floor of the tub, and sat with his back to the door, head down and eyes closed, letting the water come down, almost scalding, over the back of his neck and his arms and chest.

 

So, what did he do now? Keep planing, keep plotting and keep his eyes opened. Wait, and focus. And steel himself as much as possible for the next time that it decided to _indulge,_  because surely having done it once, a second time wouldn’t be that far off. Or a third; or… he quickly cut off that line of thought before it could make him feel any worse then he already did.

 

Squeezing his eyes tight until he saw white flashing behind his eyelids, he focused on his breathing, in and out, and the sting of the water over his flesh. Maybe now that it had taken him, it would get lax about security, and slip up. Surely it couldn’t hold him as a prisoner forever… but then it wouldn’t have to be forever, would it? Just a single human lifespan would do it. And for a creature that claimed to be over two thousand, forty years or so wouldn’t be that long to it.

 

Opening his eyes he glared at the flannel which he’d chucked over the far side of the tub, and tried to will it to him. While it twitched, it didn’t jump up to him like it would have once upon a time.

 

Or maybe… there was always a last resort, wasn’t there? The next time he was pressed, he could always say the right words to seal it, and then bolt after its ties had been broken. If he ran far enough, fast enough, even headed back home then he could probably break this. He wouldn’t be hanging around, so the bond of servitude that it was trying to force wouldn’t have enough time to cement.

 

And baring that, he could probably find a spell back home that would sever it.

 

For that matter, he didn’t even need to wait until the next time that it tried to force things. He could always finish this up, and then initiate the situation himself. Without the collar around his neck, he’d actually have a clear shot to grab his clothing, and hit the door. He had noted long ago what room it was that _it_ always entered through, so at least he knew where it was. He could run, find somewhere to hide, make a phone call and be safely back home by the time that the sun set tomorrow evening.

 

Rising, he turned off the shower and shook his head, sending water spraying over the walls. He’d made his mind up, now all that there was to do was put it into action. That dark area of his power which he could still actually feel was already stirring at the thought of another roll with _it._ That was something that he tried to ignore, though, shoving the thought away as he stretched his muscles and rolled his shoulders, making sure that he was up to the flight after the way he’d been thrown last night. He _was_ a little stiff, but he felt certain that he could still run.

 

He didn’t bother towelling off, knowing that such a thing could work to his advantage, and padded on quiet feet back towards the bedroom. There _was_ always that chance that it wouldn’t still be there, but he didn’t think that would be the case. The windows had lightened to show the stars, but it hadn’t looked like it was going to head out hunting again any time soon.

 

He came to pause in the doorway to the bedroom, and it raised its head to look at the sound, cool eyes glittering darkly as it did. The light was on, and it was still as naked as it had been last night, too. Without a word, it flashed him a toothy grin and gestured for him to approach.

 

As he drew closer, it raised an eyebrow at him, “Ready for round two already then?”

 

He hated it, but he knew enough to know that the words had to be accompanied by the act.

 

He came to a halt at the edge of the bed.

 

“Know I’m not going to get out of this. Don’t see why the hell I should keep trying.”

 

“I knew you were an intelligent one.”

 

Then, it was moving, not as fast as it had last night, but still fast enough to throw him off balance, pushing him up against the wall with cold hands, and as he felt the rough surface of the wallpaper against his bare flesh he made himself raise his head and lift his hands to tangle in his hair so that he could draw it into a kiss. Lips brushed against his, and a cool tongue snaked between his teeth in order to explore his mouth. And, even after what had happened last night, he was still beginning to stiffen. Damn his hormones.

 

He jumped slightly as a cold hand grasped his cock, and a pair of fingers flicked out to massage at his balls, but then got himself back under control again, and spread his lips wider, sucking hard to deepen the kiss, surprised that _it_ would even allow him the illusion of control, since he was going to be the one that wound up getting fucked again.

 

It broke the kiss, to scrape tooth against the side of his neck, and its hand tightened to the point just shy of pain, and he gasped.

 

It bit him lightly, and sucked, to draw a couple of mouthfuls of his blood and as it did that, it let go of his cock, and without warning slipped a single finger deep into him.

 

“Shit,” he snarled, closing his eyes and dropping his head back against the wall. He wasn’t used to such activities, and after last nigh it definitely hurt. That finger felt huge, as it rubbed against skin that was already overly sensitive.

 

“Ready for this?” it asked, punctuating each word with a twitch of its finger, and in response, knowing that it would hurt even more, he lowered his weight from the tips of his toes where it had automatically gone when the finger had gone up, and pushed it deeper inside of himself.

 

He had to give it some credit. It didn’t move, didn’t rush him as he settled his weight. It was waiting for him. Odd, in itself, but he wasn’t going to question a tiny bit of good fortune.

 

“Yes,” he managed to gasp the word, and with one swift movement it pushed its hand as tight against him as possible, slipped it’s other arm under his shoulders and picked him up spinning him around to the bed, where it settled over him.

 

Closing his eyes for a few seconds, he got his breathing back under control and it drew the finger out of him.

 

“Still with me?”

 

Again he found himself surprised by the level of restraint and control that it was showing. Anything else that he knew of would have been in full morph by now, but all that it was showing again was a hint of tooth.

 

In response he rolled over and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, bracing himself. If he could keep himself like this then he would be more ready to take his chance when it came.

 

And slowly it pushed into him, stopping when he couldn’t hold his composure any longer and broke the silence with a whimper. The dull ache inside of him had flared into full, brilliant, brutal life and he could feel every centimetre of it in him. At least now the chill came in handy, as it soothed inside him as well as anything else that it may have been doing.

 

And then, with one more movement that was a little rougher then the rest of it had been; it was in him fully. As it nudged against his power which shuddered through him he closed his eyes and it began to rock inside of him.

 

It was almost human, in the way that it touched him, over his chest and tracing fingers up his sides, toying with the skin up the inside of his thighs and the occasional brush over his balls. He’d have doubted it possible earlier, but by the time it finally wrapped a hand fully around his cock and began to move it back and forth, not grasping hard enough to move the skin, but just enough so that he could feel the movement, he was actually completely hard.

 

A tongue chased up his spine, and as it did all of this it didn’t stop the constant movement, in and out of him. In; matched by a pair of fingers pinching at his nipple, and out, matched by those fingers relaxing. In, matched this time by that hand on his cock tightening, and out matched by its release.

 

 _Not enjoying this, not enjoying it in the slightest,_ he told himself sharply. He was doing this to give himself a chance to get away and that was it. He couldn’t… this wasn’t… this couldn’t be right, he hadn’t been born into his power bound to something that looked on humans as nothing more that prey. His relief came from the fact that soon he wouldn’t have to worry over something that couldn’t be true any longer.

 

“Do you acknowledge it? Accept it.”

 

“I do.”

 

He felt a rolling shiver pass through it, and it raised its arm out of his sight a moment later. When it tucked it back in front of him it was bleeding.

 

“Go ahead.”

 

This time he steeled himself with the thought that it had nursed him back to health on its own blood, and that if it had wanted to turn him then it would have done so already.

 

He sealed his lips over the wound, and as he drew a mouthful of its blood and swallowed, he felt it tense and again that cold rushed into him. And he felt its hold over him snap as it had to, for it to reassert itself to their changed rolls.

 

Seizing on the tiny chance he slammed outwards with as much strength as he could muster, wincing as it was torn from him and thrown across the room. Standing on shaking legs he narrowed his eyes and hit it again, and this time it crumpled under the force of the mental blow, and he watched just long enough to see that it eyes were rolling back into its head, and scooping his clothes from the messy pile that they were in on the floor, he raced to the room where he was sure that the door should be. As he ran, he pushed outwards on all of the edges of the building, pausing in his flight only when he found a weak point, which he struck at with redoubled strength, and felt a wave of relief as it gave way and showed him the cool, dark night beyond.

 

The chill night air gave him a fresh rush of strength, and he fled away from the silent house for a good thirty minutes, before he could convince himself that he’d gained enough of a head start that he was safe enough to stop and dress. Besides, the night was freezing, he would be better off if he tried to mask his power, and on top of that he had no idea if he was heading away from or towards civilization. It had been dumb luck that he’d found the road that he’d been following for the last five minutes at all, and if he wanted to stand a chance at thumbing a ride from potential travellers then he would be better off dressed.

 

Trying to stop, or at least ease his shaking muscles he turned his shirt back into the right way and pulled it on over his head, then shook his pants out, stepped into them and drew them up, fastening them. Without the adrenalin that had been coursing through his system up until now, he felt exhausted all of a sudden.

 

Although, considering what he’d been through maybe it wasn’t all that much of a sudden.

 

It was just over an hour later when Ethan shook off the blow that the boy had dealt him. Opening his eyes, he tested the air and sat up as he tasted the stale scent of Rupert. The boy hadn’t been here for a fair while.

 

“Fool,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet, and shaking his head. The bond had been sealed. Rupert didn’t know what he was going wind up doing to himself, if he kept up this idiot flight.

 


	5. A Painful Homecoming (And Unbroken Ties)

** Chapter 4 – A Painful Homecoming (And Unbroken Ties) **

“Home – the world tried to break me  
I found a road to take me”  
\- Gweneth Paltrow – Home

****

_He was exhausted, but he still pushed on. He’d taken ten minutes to dampen down his magic as much as he could, but he could still feel it raging under his skin after so long bound. And he’d lost track of how long he’d been following the road for since then, but it had easily been an hour, if he was to be any judge. If someone didn’t come along soon, then he was stuffed and there would be jack that he could do about it._

_He didn’t know what Ethan would do about it, either, if it caught up to him after what he’d done to it. And he also didn’t think that his spell would hold for much longer, if it hadn’t shaken it off already. It was powerful, after all, but so was the vampire, he’d felt that over time that it’d had him trapped._

_Just as he was beginning to wonder whether he mightn’t be better off taking a stance to fight a distant glow lit the air behind him, and a truck swept around the corner. Holding his breath and hoping that there was something looking out for him above, even after all that had happened he turned around, came closer to the road so that the trucks lights could pick him out, and stuck his thumb out. As soon as the driver spotted him, the truck began to lose speed and a few meters up the road from him it came to a halt._

_Offering quiet thanks to whatever had heard his silent plea; he ran down the road and pulled the door open. The driver was a heavyset man, with a full beard that was a mix of grey and black, his hair was short on the top of his head, and his eyes were blue and coolly intelligent._

_“You know what time of night it is, kid?”_

_He glanced at the position of the stars and the half-full moon, and made a few quick calculations, “Around three?”_

_“Huh. Smart bugger, aren’t you?”_

_Rupert grabbed the side of the truck with one hand, the seat with the other, and pulled himself up. Then he pulled the door shut behind him, and buckled up._

_“Anyway, thanks. I’m Rip… Giles. Rupert Giles.”_

_“Kenneth Rodgers. Mates call me Kenny. My folks had a strange sense of humour.”_

_He started the truck, and pulled back onto the road._

_“Won’t ask what you’re running from, kid. But do you know where you’re headed?”_

_The Council headquarters was the first place that came to mind. But that wasn’t where he wanted to be. Instead he settled for shrugging._

_“What’s the closest town, and where’s your last stop?”_

_“About three hours out of Pariah, and I’m heading through to Marks.”_

_Again, Rupert repeated his silent thanks. Marks, that was a couple of hours away from where he wanted to be, and if he remembered his geography right, they were about a week worth of driving away._

_“Whitegate, so if you don’t mind the company the turnoff that’s closest to there will do just fine. I’m going home.”_

_They drove in silence for a few hours, and then Rupert heard an ominous growling, just as the very edge of the sky was beginning to lighten. Startled, he glanced around trying to locate the source of it, before he realised that it was his stomach. Kenneth glanced sideways at him and raised an eyebrow at him._

_“There’s half a beef and chutney in the glove box if you’re hungry kid. And I’ll stop for breakfast in another couple of hours, around seven. You can grab a proper bite to eat then.”_

_“Thanks,” he responded, as he fished in the glove box for the aforementioned food, pulled it out and forced himself to actually eat it properly, when what he really wanted to do was put the whole thing into his mouth at once, “but all I’ve got with me is the clothes on my back.”_

_“Don’t sweat it kid. I’ll cover it for ya.”_

_That titbit had made him more curious then ever as to what the boy’s story was, but he told himself not to go there._

_“Sounds good. I appreciate it.”_

_A few minutes later, he spoke again._

_“Why you decide to help me? There’s sweet bugger all I can give you to pay you back.”_

_“Got my own son, about your age by the look of things, and there isn’t a thing in this world that I wouldn’t do for him. I’m sure there’s someone back home, feels the same way about you.”_

_“I… I don’t know,” he spoke honestly, for the first time in a long time. He wanted nothing more than to be safe back home now, but he had no idea of the reception that was waiting for him._

_“Why you leave in the first place?”_

_Kenneth broke one of the promises that he’d made to himself. But Rupert chose his reply carefully._

_“Nothing that seems as bad from this side as it did from that.”_

_“Yeah, that’s the way it goes, kid. That’s the story of life; you get over to the other side of the river, and see that it was greener where you were standing.”_

_“Yeah, something like that,” Rupert agreed._

_At that moment the sun rose far enough for it’s light to touch his hand, and he bit his lip to stop himself from screaming as he watched with genuine surprise to see that it wasn’t blackening and bursting into flame. It hurt like hell, and even though it was something that he’d braced for, having read a little about these sorts of situations, nothing could have really prepared him for it. Gritting his teeth, and hoping that Kenneth didn’t notice the pain that he was in, he wove as many layers of shielding magic about him as he could without thinking that it would alert Ethan to his position._

_And he noticed how much more readily its name came to him, now that he was out from under its thumb. He supposed that since it wasn’t there, he wasn’t making the conscious effort that he had been to deny it name and being._

_It was closer to seven thirty when Kenneth actually stopped in front of a truck stop with a small dinner on the other side._

_“We’ll eat and then I’m gonna grab a couple of hours sleep before we carry on. You’re welcome to stretch your legs or grab a little rest yourself, whatever you want.”_

_He grabbed the keys from the ignition and swung himself out of the truck slamming the door behind him. He waited until Rupert had joined him, before coming around to check the door was locked. Then he let a couple of cars scream past him, before he crossed the road with Rupert right on his heels._

_Pushing open the door, he instantly nodded to the grey-haired woman behind the counter, “Marg.”_

_“Kenny. Must have been what, four months since you were last this way?” she poured out a couple of cups of coffee, which she slid to the edge of the counter, “And who’s the boy?”_

_The trucker grabbed both of the cups and held one of them out to him._

_“Marg, Rupert. The boy was interested in the lifestyle, so his folks arranged an initiation, of sorts. Rupert, Marg is the angle of this corner of the highway.”_

_“So, Rupert ah? Well your folks couldn’t have set you up any better for a cross-county trip. You want the usual, Kenny?”_

_“Yes, thanks. Just double it so that I can feed the boy, too. He may be small, but he can put it way like a man already.”_

_They both laughed, at some distant joke that they shared, and Rupert took a seat at an empty table, taking a sip from his cup which he’d been holding between his hands to walk them. As there was a break in the conversation between the middle-aged man, and the older woman, and she turned to start work on the food, he flicked his gaze to her._

_“Pleasure to meet you,” he muttered, before turning his attention back to the coffee._

_“A pleasure to meet you too,” she said, glancing back at him, “I hope to see you this way again one of these days, Rupert.”_

_“Thanks.”_

_After they’d eaten, and Kenneth had talked to Marg for another fifteen minutes or so, he rose and stretched, rolling his shoulders back._

_“Are you stopping for a bit? I’ve got half a dozen rooms free at the moment.”_

_“Just for a couple of hours; I’m got a couple of time-sensitive items in this lot.”_

_She tossed him a set of keys, and he snatched them deftly out of the air._

_“You know that key goes to what. And there are spare blankets and pillows in the main cupboard so the boy can take the couch.”_

_“Cheers. Appreciate it.”_

_By this time the burn of the sunlight had faded to a dull throb, something that he was grateful for. Finishing off his drink, he rose and trailed after Kenneth as he led the way through to the rooms out the back of the shop._

_“So, what you fancy? A bit of rest, or did you want to explore this place?”_

_He was exhausted, he had only slept in tiny patches the other day, and last night he hadn’t slept at all._

_“Rest sounds bloody good to me.”_

_“By the way, I’ve been thinking,” Kenneth spoke again, as he turned the key in the lock, and crossed over to the main cupboard, pulling out a couple of old feather quilts, and three pillows that had seen better years, “It’s only a couple of hours out of my way, so I’ll run you through to Whitegate. Save you from winging it, the rest of the way.”_

_“Don’t have to. I mean, you’ve shown enough generosity already.”_

_“I can’t see you all that way, without seeing you the rest of the way home, kid.”_

_“Thanks,” Rupert flicked out the blankets over the couch, and tucked the pillows in against the arm as Kenneth crossed over and pulled the curtain so that it dimmed the light, “if you really don’t mind, well, it’d mean a lot to me.”_

_Kenneth paused with his hand on the doorhandle to the bathroom, “I wouldn’t have said if it I minded. Now, you get some shut-eye. You can always get a bit more once we’re on thew road again, but it never feels quite as good as it does when you’re lying down.”_

_He settled on the couch, and didn’t know any more until he was being shaken awake a few hours later._

_“Come on kid, time we cut a track.”_

Over the last week Rupert had adjusted himself well enough to Kenneth’s pattern of about a day and a half of driving, followed by a couple of hours sleep, then right back into it. And it felt strange when he began to pinpoint some of the sights that he’d grown up with. Even stranger that he was coming to the end of his journey.

 

He’d discovered yesterday that he couldn’t enter the home of someone that he didn’t know without a spoken invitation when they’d stopped for dinner at the home of a couple of Kenneth’s old friends, something that he’d had to subtly and skilfully manoeuvre from the homeowner, but that was something he hoped would fade with time like the effects of the sunlight should. Still, he resolved to make his approach to home during full daylight, on the off-chance that it would stretch to his own home, too; on the off-chance that it would no longer be regarded as _his_ home.

 

After all, he’d been away a while, and a hell of a lot had happened. In spite of his initial fear he hadn’t felt a single tremor of Ethan’s presence, and nor had Kenneth elected to question him over anything.

 

As they hit the turnoff to Whitegate the man that he’d come to regard as a friend, and one of the best sorts of people pulled up at a small, out of the way place for lunch. He’d only been there once before, and no-where near recently enough for anyone that worked there to recognize him.

 

“So, where about here is home, kid?” he asked, over wedges and bacon and egg pie.

 

“How well you know the area?”

 

“Well enough to get around.”

 

“You know the property names? You know of _Sanctum? ”_

“Isn’t that that huge old estate, about half an hour away from here? The one where the…” he trailed off, and Rupert knew exactly what he’d been about to say, in spite of never having heard the end of the sentence.

 

“The one where the kid went missing from, if that’s what you were going to say? That’s the bugger.”

 

He stared uneasily at the drink that the man had brought him to go with the meal. His head was aching dully, but he’d been tolerating that for the last day or so, and didn’t think that it was anything to fuss over.

 

“ _You’re_ the Giles boy; -Adrian’s son? Well, of course you are, I suppose you’ve already told me that…” he fell silent for a couple of minutes, and Rupert was beginning to wonder just where this was going when he spoke again, “Christ, kid, must have been just shy of two months ago that your father was offering a reward of five thousand over information about your location. When you gave me your name, I didn’t think for a moment that…”

 

He trailed off again, and Rupert busied himself with his drink again. Only after the bowl of wedges that was in front of him had been dealt with, did he work out where to go from there.

 

“You’re more than welcome to run me to the door, and pick it up if it’s still on offer. Not many genuinely kind people you run into when you need it, and you deserve it if anyone does.”

 

“I think I’d feel better leaving you with my address. If you decide to pass it on later on, well, that’s your business. But as for something like that, that ought to be something between,”

 

“Please, Kenny?” he shortened the man’s name as he had the last few times that they’d spoken in any seriousness, feeling comfortable with it, “I know you’ve done a lot for me already, but it’d make me feel a little more secure in things.”

 

He finished off his own food, and stood to leave.

 

“Just for you; kid.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

The rest of the drive back passed in a silence that felt more uneasy than he’d remembered it doing so, before. Even that first night, when he’d picked a ride with a complete stranger he hadn’t felt quite this awkward about it. But then, he guessed that he was reading too much into it, probably. Overreacting; to the fact that who he was, was out. And he couldn’t stop the fact that his father had been concerned enough to offer a cash reward from circling his mind, either.

 

When they pulled up to a stop outside of _Sanctum,_ for the first time he questioned the merits of having asked Kenneth to bring him to the door. But to change his mind now would be a show of weakness, and he was determined to prove to himself that he wasn’t a coward.

 

He got out; planning on opening the gate so that he could drive through and Kenny shut the truck off, and swung down and out. Seeing Rupert’s hesitation, he raised an eyebrow at him, “Second thoughts kid?”

 

“Yeah, actually, that’s about the size of it.”

 

“I don’t mind saying goodbye and carrying on.”

 

He made his mind up, and pushed open the metal gate which barred the way over the farm trail that led up to the house.

 

“No. Come on.”

 

The stables were just visible through the trees to the left, and a pair of thoroughbred horses, Master with his black body and white socks on his two forelegs, and Raven which was a pure black danced in the field to his immediate right. And the sound of voices, Master came up to the fence and eyed him with those eyes that had always seemed to intelligent for a horse.

 

Not feeling the slightest bit foolish, he nodded to the animal wishing for a few moments that he had the time to go up to him, and spend a bit of time simply talking to him, and scratching that spot behind his ears that he knew the beast loved. But he could save that for later, for a reward after he’d done this.

 

It was a ten minute walk up to the house, and Rupert found himself hesitating again before the front door. As Kenny slowly climbed the front stairs behind him, he raised a hand and grasped the knocker, striking two firm blows with it. Then as he waited, he entertained himself with the question; of who it would be who would get the front door. He knew what day it was, but he didn’t know if any staff had been hired or fired over the last eight months. Would it be someone that he recognized, or would it…?

 

Then the front door was opened by none other than his father, himself. And Rupert, who hadn’t been able to shake the thought that he had to get home, was face to face with a man that looked older then he should have, who was staring at him with an expression that was a mixture of wonder and wariness and hesitation, who looked as though he’d been given both a gift that he’d never expected and something that he wasn’t sure whether he’d wanted to see, at the same time.

 

“Rupert?” His voice was hesitant, and soft, as though to say it any louder or with certainty would be to make to vision before him take flight.

 

That _couldn’t_ be a glint of tears in the corners of his eyes could it?

 

Rupert raised a hand slowly towards where he thought that the barrier, but in spite of a slight tingle across his skin at a certain point there was nothing, certainly no barrier. Maybe it was already fading. Maybe he had run far enough to break it.

 

He stepped through the doorway properly, and as he passed the halfway point a flash of pain throbbed in his temple, but he brushed it aside. And his old man gave up all pretence of hesitation, and drew the teenager into a tight hug, that Rupert once would have shrugged free from. And he was trying to bite back his own tears.

 

“My God; Rupert… They… they told me two months ago that you’d dropped of the radar, that you were… that you were dead. I offered a reward expecting a body. How could they have been so wrong?”

 

“It’s a long story, Father. But I’m not, I’m fine. I’m fine now, anyway, and that’s…”

 

“That’s all that matters, that you’re alright, that you’re back,” Adrian spoke over him, but for once he found that he didn’t mind it. He was home, he was safe, he could stop running, and he would place himself back under his father’s guardianship without a single word of complaint or thought of resentment.

 

Now that he knew what it was like out in the cold world, he was prepared to learn what he needed to get by in it, and never think of the last two months of his flight again.

 

Ethan couldn’t touch him here.

 


	6. Chapter 5 – Rights (And Consequences)

** Chapter 5 – Rights (And Consequences) **

“Thumbing through the pages of my fantasies  
I’m above you smiling as you drown”  
\- KoRn – Thoughtless

****

Even after having fed, he still felt worn out, weaker than usual. And while it was small compensation, if he was feeling this rough then the thought that the boy, in all his stubbornness and determination must feel that much worse, keep him moving.

 

After shaking the spell off, he’d tracked the boy’s cooling scent to the road and along it to the spot where it mingled with the scent of exhaust and vanished.

 

As much as it wasn’t a good turn of events, he admired it. To know about that window, and actually be able to take advantage of it suggested an intelligence that was beyond the usual human allowance.

 

Since then he’d been tracking the boy by the small traces of magic that escaped whenever he assumed that the young one wasn’t watching himself quite as much as he normally would be. If it had been anyone else, then it wouldn’t have been enough, but what with the circumstances here…It was painfully slow going, following from one hint of power, and then re-adjusting his course at the next, but he knew exactly when the boy was headed now, too.

 

He was going back to the place that he’d first been drawn to when the boy had come into his power, before a part of it had been bound. He was going back to the place that the young one once regarded as home, back to the walls that had once protected him.

 

That meant that he was safe to start planning. He knew from staking out the place years ago that the boy was an only child, his mother an unnecessary casualty of a battle that didn’t have to be fought. And he’d seen enough to see that in spite of the regulations of the Council, his father wasn’t simply prepared to sit back and watch as things ran their course. If he’d been that kind of a person, to go with things rather than fight them, Ethan would have had the young one when he’d first came into his power, back when he’d been eleven.

 

Four years felt like a very, very long time to wait. And that, coming from a creature that was older than the time when demons had decided to play God, was something.

 

_He was tired, and his head was pulsing in uneven bursts of pain. He’d slipped out of the study, in order to have a little of his own peace, and to let his father talk to Kenneth on his own. He half-wished that he stayed around, if only to hear what was being said, but he knew that it wouldn’t be anything vital, if only because over the course of a week Kenneth hadn’t pushed him for anything vital._

_But he was restless, too. He felt out of place in the place that he’d grown up in, almost like he was a hermit crab trying to return to the shell that it had worn last season, only to find it too tight across the shoulders. He’d outgrown it, he shouldn’t have come here, it didn’t fit, wasn’t right…_

_His breath was coming in sharp pants, which he only just managed to wrest back under his control as the door to the room that he’d slipped off into, just off the study was opened. Bitting his lip he raised his head, only to discover that it was Kenneth._

_He released death-grip on his lip and made himself smile, keeping the look as genuine as he could._

_“So, guess this is it, huh?”_

_“Yeah, kid; got to be on my way. If I put my foot down, there’s still a chance that I might make it on time.”_

_“Thanks. Not just for the ride, but for everything.”_

_Without giving himself a chance to think about it, he rose to his feet and gave the trucker a parting hug._

_“Take care of yourself, kid. And if you need me, then look me up.”_

_“Believe me, I will.”_

_Rupert let him go, and took an awkward step back, sinking back into his seat to watch as Kenneth stepped out of the room, and let the door swing closed behind him._

_It wasn’t even half a minute later, when the door opened again, and his old man came into the room, with a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. But Rupert only had eyes for the former, not the latter, and as his father approached the far side of the table he found himself struggling to see past the memory that rose before his eyes, of Ethan coming back out, and fishing out the bottle, holding it lightly._

_“Rupert.”_

_Still his voice sounded hesitant, and as he poured out two glasses, and took the seat opposite him, he forced his eyes to the face before him._

_“You look like you could do with this.”_

_He reached out a shaking hand, and picked up the glass, cradling it near his chest with both; then he sat, simply staring at the amber liquid. After a few minutes of silent contemplation which neither dared to break, Rupert of his glass and Adrian of his son, the boy rose the glass to his lips, and took a tiny sip, before pulling a face more at the memory than anything else, and settled back properly in his chair._

_“Rupert, I’m sorry. It never should have happened.”_

_At the words, the boy started, and meeting his fathers eyes he could finally see past his own anger, and feelings of repression, which had been all that he could see last time, to the sincerity in the expression, and the sorrow for what had passed. Although too little, too late; he wished that he’d been able to see it for what it was last time._

_“So am I. I… I’m not renouncing myself, but… but I can see not to press a point that I don’t have to.”_

_With that Adrian found himself looking at his son in a new light. Eight months, and the boy had, emotionally and sensibility-wise, aged what was easily several years. He took a sip of his own drink, and eyed the boy over the rim of his glass, meeting his gaze for half a minute, before he realised and it flicked to the side. But that was more than enough for him to see the pain and regret, there._

_“What the hell happened to you out there? For the trackers to be certain that you were dead… or at least sure enough of it to tell me…”_

_“I just about was,” Rupert knew that his voice was becoming rough, but he couldn’t seem to help it. Throwing back his head, he drained his glass and put it back down on the table where it was promptly refilled, “I was jumped at a bus stop, just inside of London. Managed to get away, but they did me in worse than I’d realised. I… I guess I wound up in the right place, though, because there was someone willing to help me back on my feet. It took over a month, but…”_

_He trailed off, and Adrian noticed the tension in the boy._

_“And I’d assume that’s not half of it.”_

_“Please. You… you don’t need to know and honestly I’d rather not go into it. Not right now. And I know that it’s early, but I’m exhausted.”_

_He looked at the boy again, and bit back a sigh, even as his son tried to blink the tears that were threatening to spill, back into submission. And then, it was like he decided that it wasn’t a battle worth waging, and they coursed down his cheeks. All that he wanted to do was help him through some of the pain that was in evidence there. But it was obviously too much, too soon._

_“If you ever can… If you ever want to, then any time of the day or night I’m willing to listen.”_

_“Thank-you, that means more to me than you know.”_

He tossed and turned in the bed, every twitch sending a fresh wash of nausea through his body, and a new stab of pain through his head. He didn’t feel quite as bad as he had the night after hitting the house, but it didn’t exactly feel like that would be long in coming either.

 

He couldn’t keep down any sold food, and only a little of the liquid that he swallowed. And his throat was raw from dry-retching. And his entire body ached, to match what that dark spot in his mind was feeling.

 

Closing his eyes, he moaned and shivered, and felt the glass that had been left beside his bed lifted to his lips. Breathing in deeply, he forced his eyes open and took a tiny sip, as what felt like every muscle contracted. All that he could see in his father’s expression was concern.

 

“I just wish you’d tell me, Rupert. Then maybe I could do something that would actually help you.”

 

“Can’t; it’ll pass. In its own time it’ll pass.”

 

Closing his eyes again, he rolled over to face the wall, and drew the blankets up over his head feeling miserable as well as everything else. At least he could die with self-control and dignity, if nothing else.

 

Although at the moment it felt like sweet fuck all as far as compensation went.

 

He fell into a restless, shallow sleep, and his father sat in the chair that he’d brought into the room after Rupert had woken, too weak to raise himself from his bed, five days after getting back home.

 

As his old man reached out, to brush sweat-soaked hair back from his head, the wards around the place fired off.

 

“Don’t,” Rupert started from his half doze, as the sound of knocking echoed through the house from the front door, “Don’t open it, please. Don’t listen, don’t… please don’t, please…”

 

He knew exactly what it would be. But exhaustion pulled him back under, pulling him down with greedy, selfish fingers.

 

The next thing he knew, the door was opening again, and his arm was being drawn out from under the covers, and his sleeve forced up to his elbow.  The gasp seemed too loud to be something that was real.

 

“Oh, Rupert…”

 

“Nothing…” he wriggled his arm free and tucked it back under, “Nothing; ran, so it’s broken. Nothing…”

 

“I wish that it were that simple,” he sounded breathless, so Rupert forced his eyes open again, and was shocked to see that the old man was shaking, tears soaking down his cheeks.

 

“Don’t. Rather go, please…”

 

He let out a shallow breath, and didn’t bother going for another until his bodies natural instinct took over.

 

“I’m sorry, Rupert. I’m so sorry. But, it’s right. You’re all that I’ve got left, and I can’t… I can’t watch you kill yourself.”

 

“Then don’t. Go, and leave me to it,” these words he managed to snarl with far more conviction than he actually had at the moment, “but you can’t… you can’t let that… that thing at me. Please.”

 

“Didn’t you even wonder why I was so protective of you?” He raised the glass to the boy’s lips again, although this time it was his own hand that was shaking, and he was trying to distract himself with anything that he could do, “Didn’t you ever wonder why I tried to keep you safe, why I bound an area of your power the day that you began to develop it? It,” he swallowed, “it was telling the truth, in that you power linked you to it.”

 

“No. You never… told me.”

 

“I didn’t tell you, because I wanted to keep you safe. I thought… hoped, that if I could keep things from developing then the thr-posibility would pass.”

 

He caught the word that his father cut off, but didn’t have the energy to try and figure out what it was actually meant to be.

 

“It hurts. _Everything_ hurts.”

 

“I know,” he sounded like he actually meant it too, “I know it hurts. But it won’t be for much longer.”

 

“You gonna… finish… finish it for me, now you know? Please, make it quick. Can’t watch me kill myself, so you … you’ve got to do it for me; please.”

 

“I’m sorry, Rupert. But I can’t do that either.”

 

“Then kill _it.”_

“You know, as well as I, that such a thing would still achieve the same result. I don’t want to … I _can’t_ see you lost. You’re all that I’ve got left.”

 

His old man’s voice broke and he realised that his father was still crying, although slightly less noticeably, as he turned to head back down stairs. Then, he paused, after he’d descended the first couple, “I’m not sure exactly when I’ll be back. But I will be. You’re still my son; and I still… I still love you,” the last few words were said in a rush, as though he was trying to force the words out while he was still capable of saying them.

 

He pressed a hand to his son’s cheek for a short while before drawing it back and twisting away.

 

A couple of minutes later he heard the sound of the front door opening and closing.

 

Knowing that such a childish trick wouldn’t do him any favours, he still drew up the blankets over his head, and shivering, tucked his head against them holding them down against the pillow, trying to bite back the tears, a combination of pain and exhaustion and fear, which threatened to overflow.

 

 _Every_ muscle ached. But it was more than just an ache; it was a bone-deep, burning throb that rose in level to agony with each spasm that hit him.

 

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, he heard the sound of the door to his room being pushed open, and he held his breath, even though he knew that the constant shiver of his body would give him away if nothing else would.

 

The blankets were drawn back down, and he found himself staring at what he’d hoped to never see again, warm firelight glistening off of clothed muscle and pale flesh. And he found himself wondering; why was _it_ looking like that? Had it been so focused on the search, on tracking him down to extract revenge that it hadn’t been feeding?

 

Was it planning on draining him dry, in spite of the fact that it had been let in to save his life?

 

“You look like death warmed over,” its voice was soft. And if he hadn’t known exactly what it was, then the scene would have seemed almost domestic.

 

“If I’ve the willpower to die, then you should have the grace to let me.”

 

The words were delivered with venom and he didn’t know quite where he’d scraped it up from, but all that it did was smile at him.

 

“It’s a nice try. But it’s going to take more than your running, to overcome _my_ natural instinct for survival. Two thousand years of life leaves it a hard habit to break, I’m afraid.”

 

“What the hell…” all of a sudden he was struggling for breath, “the hell…” he gasped again, “the hell do _you_ have to do with it?”

 

The blanket was thrown back, and without quite knowing how it had happened he found himself drawn into a seated position on its knee. The next contraction that hit him seemed even worse than the last, but it held him still through it.

 

“I have everything to do with it, boy. I never forced you into a tie of subservience; although I could see even then that such a thing would have no doubt been easier for me, with your natural defiance. I pushed you into the tie of an equal. If you die, then unless I can break something that’s inescapable …”

 

Letting out a shaky breath, he pressed himself back into its grasp, even as another tremor washed through him, and he told himself that he wasn’t acting on his own whim. It was cool against him, the feel of its ice touch soothing muscles that hadn’t had a rest for the last three days since the convulsions had started.

 

“Why… why would a killer… a monster care about something like that?”

 

“It’s only you, who calls me a monster these days, Rupert. Your power was born bound to mine, with all of your fire and strength. You’re no submissive, and to force you into the shell of one would be to deny what you are. There are those, it’s true, that wouldn’t care, but I’m not one of those,” its hands slipped up under his shirt, and came to rest against bare flesh just over his stomach, and closing his eyes he dropped his head back against its shoulder, not even flinching as seconds later it buried its head into the hollow that had been left his neck and shoulder.

 

“And I’m not a killer, either. Or, I should say that I’m not a mindless one. I haven’t taken an innocent life, by design, for a long time.”

 

Again the room spun around him, and this time when it came to a stop, he found the he was laying on the bed again on his side, half-curled into himself, with it pressed flush against him, its hard cock nudging against him distractingly.

 

“But I’ve felt you warm.”

 

“Of course you have. I said that I don’t kill, not that I don’t feed. I’m intelligent, not suicidal,” it licked the side of his neck, and that was equally distracting until another spasm seized his muscles, “and to leave a trail of bodies is to do nothing more than invite death.”

 

This time he only caught half the words, as a rushing sound roared in his ears.

 

“ _Fuck,”_ he gasped the word and his body jerked forward. If he’d been on his back then he’d have been arching off the bed, and although it was only something that came through in part he felt movement behind him, before a bloody arm was circled in front of his head.  A fresh wave of nausea hit him at sight of the wound, until it was brought up to his mouth.

 

“Go ahead. It wouldn’t be enough to save you on its own, you’ve pushed yourself too far for too long for things to be that simple, but at least it’ll ease you a little for a few moments.”

 

All that he saw, now, was a way past the pain. And that, in any way, shape, or form was a very welcome thing. Raising a single, weak hand he grasped its arm and pressed the wound hard to his mouth, where it allowed him a couple of mouthfuls, before drawing it back.

 

The warmth, the ease that flooded his body was a shock in itself. It was better than the best drug that he’d tried, although he would have been very highly surprised if his point of view wasn’t compromised at the moment.

 

Closing his eyes to block the spinning stars that seemed to be flashing into life in his bedroom from view, he moaned again as a slightly less violent wave of pain passed through him, and again it held him tight throughout, pulling him back against its chest until he could breath again, its grip hard enough that he knew there would be bruises there later.

 

Then it shifted, drawing back from him and as much as he wanted to twist around to keep an eye on it, he didn’t have the strength to raise his head. His question was answered a few moments later, however, as the clothing that it had been wearing was flung across the room and piled against the far wall. And he couldn’t even draw up his own panic in order to fight it off, as it raised him to a sitting position with one arm and held him steady as it tucked a single hand under the waist of his own shirt and drew it up over his head.

 

This time when it settled them, it was under the blankets and again it simply held him for a few minutes, letting its cool chest press against the sticky, clammy flesh of his back. He knew that he should wrestle it off, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t been able to do so even at full health; and that at the moment he felt like he couldn’t have threatened a headless cockroach. Besides, if he were to be honest with himself; which was another thing there was no point in going against since there was only he and it here, the last thing that he wanted to do was fight it off even if he could have. His body had been craving this contact for longer than he cared to consider.

 

Even after he’d hit his first night with Kenny, when he was still trying to tell himself that all it would take to break the bond would be time and distance, he had still felt like something had been lacking. And it didn’t take his level of brainpower to figure out exactly what.

 

After what felt like another age, it raised the arm that was draped over him and he felt its cool hand slide down his flesh to tuck under the waistband of his boxers and push them a little way down his legs where after a little manoeuvring so that it didn’t lose the flesh on flesh contact, it caught the bottom of the between its toes and drew them down into the bottom of the bed. If he’d felt even slightly better than he did, and if he’d been sharing the bed with anything, strike that, anyone else, then he’d have probably found himself laughing at the action. But while he could no longer muster that outright blind panic any more, that didn’t mean that he still wasn’t feeling a hint of trepidation towards things.

 

Another shudder pulled his muscles tight, and it drew him back with the arm that was tucked under him, even as its nails teased over the flesh of his inner thigh. And then it grasped his hip, holding him still with one hand. He’d been expecting it to shove him over onto his chest, but while it wasn’t wasting any time, it wasn’t doing that sort of thing either. Instead, it mirrored its arms with legs, slipping one under his body, and curling the other up over his side, slipping into him as the next shiver hit him, with no warning or preparation, using the natural contraction and relaxation of his muscles to its advantage.

 

Just like that it was buried inside of him, holding him tight, fingernails cutting into his skin, and with that a little more of the agony that he had been in left him. Dropping his head, he let out a breath that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and simply lay there, cool hard muscle pressed to warm flesh. His body’s instinct was to force them both into a position where things would get moving, but he was too weak to do anything like that.

 

And its burn inside of him wasn’t so much a burn, as it was what his body had been craving in the first place, as loath as he was to admit it.

 

“Why,” he gasped, as he felt a burn at the side of his neck, followed by a sharp tugging, as it drew a couple of mouthfuls blood in repayment, then soothed over the wound it’s tongue, and then picked up his train of thought again, “why me? Why not some other poor basted a hundred years ago?”

 

It chuckled, a dark sound that Rupert felt throughout his entire body, and he could feel the power stirring in it, leaving behind a sharp tingle that wasn’t entirely unpleasant where its fingers traced down and over his flesh, and up and over the pattern of its mark on his arm, “May as well be asking why you were born with a soul, when what good is it going to do you?”

 

Its hand traced down further still, and it grasped the back of his hand, twining fingers through so that they came together towards the centre of the boy’s palm, pressing downwards until the nails cut several crimson half-circles through the skin. Relaxing its hold a little, it raised the injured hand, and drew its tongue across the centre of it, cleaning it before it pressed a kiss to the tender flesh, and drew almost all the way out of him, before pressing back in.

 

There was no point in fighting it. All he could keep doing; was to tell himself that he was so compromised at the moment, after what he’d been through, that he’d enjoy anything; _even_ this monsters caress.

 

And if he kept it up, then maybe he would begin to believe it.

 

It shifted slightly, and raised the hand the was under him, digging the nails in as it drew it down his chest, leaving triplet line of heat, led by spot of ice-chill. Down his chest, to his navel, and the hand lifted and the fingers traced back over their path. He knew that the scratches were nothing, but they still stung. And it raised the hand, slipped one of those fingers into his mouth and he shuddered at the taste of his own blood on it, before it raised the hand the rest of the way, and licked the other two fingers clean.

 

The hand moved back down, and it grasped his hand again, curled its fingers and his own stinging palm around his cock, tugging on it as it drew itself out of him a little way, and moving back inside as it let him go.

 

The spasms were still shaking him, but with far less frequency and intensity then they had been doing before, and he knew, as much as he wanted to deny it, that it was because of Eth… it. And he also knew that it would take more than one round of this, before he was strong enough to stand again, because after all, he didn’t have twenty centuries of demonic energy to cushion his own fall.

 

The window was darkening; somehow he still had enough of himself left to notice that. He hadn’t noticed it throwing its spell toward it, but come to that there was a hell of a lot that he wouldn’t have noticed after it had first come in. After all, he hadn’t been in much of a state to have been watching its every movement.

 

He’d heard a thing or two about the stamina of a vampire, always uttered in the same dark tones, but now he had his own first hand account of it. He didn’t know how long ago it was that this had started, but something told him that it had been impossibly long.

 

The window darkened further, and it rested a free hand against his cheek, to push his head around, and it slipped a tongue that tasted of a lingering hint of blood-iron between his lips, and drew it against his, as it finally pushed him over onto his chest and set the steady rhythm of thrust and withdraw that he’d expected from the start.

 

His breath was coming faster by the moment, and the pattern of it fulling him; then drawing back, and then filling him again threatened to send him over the edge on its own, never mind the way that it was rolling his balls between its fingers. Letting out a strange cross between a wail and a moan, he bit the pillow hard, and balled the sheet tightly in his left hand for something to grasp. And he could feel the tension in its muscles, building in it.

 

It still seemed like another impossible length of time, before in squeezed hard at his cock, wringing his own orgasm from him, and it stiffened and came in him. For a few moments, it rested, forehead pressed against the rise of his spine, and then it pulled out of him, and drew both of them back over onto their sides. Grasping the sheet which had come with him, draw along by the bloody trails that it had left, it pulled it free ignoring the stream of curses that he uttered, then raised its hand to its mouth and sunk its own teeth into a finger. Rupert watched in the half-light, with a fascination that he was trying almost desperately to hide, as it pressed the bloody digit to one of the scratches and drew it up the length of his chest, and something that was in it healed the scratch. It then went over the others in the same manner, and then held him, still throbbing palm ignored. He would have mustered a complaint, but between the state that he’d been in before, and the way that he felt now, something like that wasn’t enough to keep him awake.

 

Adrian hadn’t known where he had been heading, when he’d first left the house. All that he’d known was that he had to get away from there, and from what he now knew. It had been too late to head to a bar, when he desperately wanted something to drink, and to forget about it, in hopes that it would go away. And then he’d found himself on the road to the Council headquarters.

 

The building was dead silent at this time of night, but that had been a part of what he had been after. And eventually, he settled in the main library with a bottle scotch that he’d taken from the front cabinet and a sketch of the mark that he’d seen earlier on, on a piece of paper, going on the theory that if he could identify exactly what it was that was holding his son, then maybe he could break the hold.

 

He had started by identifying what made the archaic symbol unique, and had gone from there, as in that alone there was more than enough to rule out several years. And after a couple of hours searching the shelves he had discovered his first link in a book that detailed the demons legends of demons, referring to a creature, a hybrid or vampire of immense power that had gone by the tittle of ‘ _adventum_ _tempestas’_ Latin for ‘The Coming Storm’ for the way it had drawn on Chaos and destruction like a storm-cloud signalled what was to come. There was no woodcut of the creature, but there was one, of the mark that its followers and servants bore, and that was the giveaway.

 

Chasing out from there, he had managed to find several other references to it, and its title which changed every now and then, too. The last reference that he turned up was in a Watcher’s Journal some five hundred years ago, that referred to a creature which had saved the Slayer of a woman named Josephine Marshall, simply for what it stated as entertainments sake. Again, there was no sketch of the creature but there was a sketch near it; of the mark which it bore high on its left shoulder. And it had called itself by a human name.

 

Ethan Rayne.

 

He took a sip from the glass of scotch of scotch that he’d poured himself, and closed his eyes for a few moments. Deep in the library he hadn’t noticed the lighting of the sky outside, and nor had he heard it as someone else came into the building.

 

The first he knew of it, was when a voice spoke over his shoulder.

 

“Looks like a late night for you then; Giles?”

 

He glanced back.

 

“You have no idea, Travers.”

 

In spite of himself he yawned, and drew the old Diary closer to him, as Travers scanned a couple of the other books that he had opened.

 

“The Coming Storm I see. You won’t find any mention of that one past there,” he nodded at the diary that Giles was holding, and he looked up, curiously.

 

“Why? How do you know?”

 

“I did a thesis on vampires that retained or developed the use of sorcery after turning. Most vampires have the supernatural reflexes and heightened senses which are granted by the demons possession, it’s true, but those that actually have the ability or the strength of will to harness magic are few and far between, which is something that I’m sure we’re all grateful for. This one in particular is quite an interesting character, but around Fourteen-Seventy A.D it just drops out of sight. Certainly there’s no further mention of it this side of the Fifteen Hundreds. You’re missing the Denver Theroux, and a couple besides that with minor references, but aside from that you’ve got pretty much all that’s here already. Anyway, why the sudden interest, Adrian?”

 

He wanted desperately to lay the weight that he was feeling on his shoulders as the feet of someone else, but he couldn’t do it. He owed that much to his son, at least.

 

“No particular reason, really. I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to do a spot of reading. I overheard someone else talking the other day, theorizing that he might not be dead since there’s mention of such a thing. I was just looking at things, and wondering how it would be possible for something like this to drop out of sight, otherwise.”

 

“You know the new recruits; they’d question why the wind blows and whether it’s really just the air. But, as to your question, the only way that a vampire like that could drop out of sight so efficiently was if it had stopped killing for some reason. And you know as well as I, that between the natural predatory nature, if such a thing can ever be called natural and the command of the demon that such a thing is contrary to a vampires every instinct. It’s impossible.”

 

“Yes, I suppose,” quietly, he closed the Diary and sat, with his eyes closed, glass in his hand and his hand resting flat on the cover of the book, until he heard the sound of footsteps leaving him.

 

Well, that was interesting.

 

Taking another sip from his glass, he rose to hunt out the Denver Theroux.

 


	7. Chapter 6 – New Life (And Old Habits)

** Chapter 6 – New Life (And Old Habits) **

“I see that nothing in your eyes; touch your skin cold as ice  
I steal a kiss to make sure you’re not breathing”  
\- The Used – Now That You’re Dead

 

_The window had lightened, to show a vivid sunset sky, dotted with stars in the distant reaches, and for a few minutes on waking, with that cold weight against him he wasn’t sure where exactly he was, or how he’d gotten there. He felt weak, but better than he had in while, and while his body ached it was far from the worst he had ever experienced._

_He stayed there, safe in his own little world, right up until the moment that he went to raise his head, and found he was stopped by a hard, cool chest that didn’t rise or fall. And with that it came flooding back. And somehow, and only whatever dark god with it’s twisted sense of humour that was watching him knew how, he had rolled over some time during the day and burrowed against it, pressing himself fully into its grasp._

_Keeping his movements as small as possible, he lifted one cool arm so that he could put some space between himself and Eth… it. He raised the arm a few centimetres, hesitated and checked it again, lifted it a little further still, then glanced at it again only to find cool brown eyes boring into his. It was really only the age of that gaze, and the chill in it that gave it away, he mused, before shaking his head to snap himself out of it._

_“You seemed comfortable enough before. And I’ve been watching you for the last half hour. So I’d assume you’re not now; or is it simply that it’s straight back to the act now that you’re awake? Never mind that it’s only you and I, here.”_

_The thought that it had watched him while he slept was something that he found more than a little disconcerting. Which was probably a strange notion, after what it had done to him, come to that._

_He hesitated, and it snapped its teeth at him, before its lips twitched into a grin. At the suddenness of the action he had flinched, and now he berated himself for it. To show weakness in front of this thing… but then, he could hardly have been much weaker last night, could he? Or for that matter, the first time it had picked him up._

_“So, what about it; still wish you were dead?”_

_Again he hesitated, and actually found himself thinking about it. There were certainly a few times over the last couple of God-Awful months that he had wished for nothing else. But now, he wasn’t sure._

_It grinned at him, as though it could read his mind. Not that it needed to; the pheromones and what-not that were probably seeping out of his skin were probably a clear enough indication to a thing with a nose like what it had._

_His power sung beneath his skin again, after having been turned back in by his weakness, and he was feeling twitchy. He dragged himself over to the far side of the bed, and pressed himself into the wall under the window, taking some comfort from something that was actually meant to be cool and solid. The fire had died down to a few tiny embers, and while that wasn’t enough to even pick out the titles of the books on the shelf closest to it, Ethan’s eyes shone almost white with reflected light, even in the sparse glow, a visible reminder of a life lived in darkness._

_“Were you planning on… on binding me again, or something?” He kicked himself for saying it, but if it was planning to lock his power back down then he felt that he would be better off knowing._

_“Why?”_

_He frowned at the blanket that hid the rest of his body from view._

_“Why wouldn’t you?”_

_“If it gives you some sense of false security, then I see no need to,” it stretched its muscles, and raised itself up on one arm, pushing up into a sitting position, “besides, binding you hardly kept you from attempting flight last time. And I doubt your common sense would allow you to do so again, unless you were certain that you were going to survive it.”_

_“But you… you don’t know me.”_

_“Not as such, no. But I know humans as a collective. The desire for survival is one thing that’s almost impossible to beat. I’ve seen men, life’s blood flowing freely; still try to keep me back. That you tried to invite your own death, is an anomaly, and one that I don’t see a repeat performance of, not now that you know what it feels like.”_

 

_It rolled free from the bed, and stood, glancing around before it crossed the room to gather its clothing and pulled them back on._

_“Now, did you want a hand into the bathroom, or downstairs, or something as like?”_

_He drew up his usual sense of anger and barely constrained fury._

_“If you never touch me again, it’ll be too soon.”_

_It paused near the door and dropped into a crouch, pulling out some kindling and a few small pieces of wood, which it placed on the fire, stirring dead air over the glow until the thinner wood caught, before it straightened in the doorway and flashed him a grin, and somehow the first tiny licks of orange firelight glinted off its teeth, making it already seem like it was tainted with blood. And then, for the first time he watched it morph from a human countenance._

_In its morph he could see its true age. It’s skin was leathery, its teeth were tinted yellow like old parchment, and longer than they should have been and its eyes glowed with a more intense yellow then he had seen in any other vampire, not that he’d seen all that many on the hunt. It felt powerful, too, not like something that he’d want to cross._

_He told himself that he didn’t care about that._

_“I’m feeling rather hungry. Couldn’t imagine why, after last night,” it raised an eyebrow, almost as though trying to share a joke, “I’ll be back before dawn.”_

_“You’re more than welcome to stay out there and burn,” he yelled after its back, as it headed down the stairs._

_As the place fell silent around him, he lay on his side staring into the slowly growing firelight, thinking. The other day he’d still had his hope. It hadn’t been much, granted, but at least he’d still had it. And now that was gone again, and it seemed he’d never really had it in the first place._

_Finally, he pushed himself over to the far side of the bed, and swung his legs out as he sat up. Leaning heavily, first on the bed, and then the table and the wall after that, he discovered that his legs could support him, even as weak and shaky as they felt. Slowly, he made his was through to his en suite bathroom and turned on the hot tap over the tub._

_Maybe if he stayed in the water for a couple of hours he would feel a little more human._

_Water poured into the huge, deep stone tub, and steam filled the room. That was twice now he owed it his life. Although the second time he wouldn’t have needed saving if it hadn’t been for it in the first place, so that could hardly be counted._

_Still, if he kept his head down maybe it was a sign that he would survive this._

The night was cool and quiet around him. And, on the wrong side of three A.M he felt far more as ease in it then he should have, given the actual length of time that he’d been in this situation for.

 

Closing one eye, and tilting his head to one side in order to see more deeply into a nearby shadow, he drew his leather jacked a little tighter, and plunged a hand into his pocket to draw a finger along the back of the handle of the flick-knife that he’d taken to carrying.

 

It had been two months since it had tracked him back to his home, and one and a half since _it_ had revealed to him that it had its own place in these parts, something which hadn’t actually been so much of a revelation as something that he’d suspected, anyway. And two weeks ago Rupert Giles had gone from being a bitter, angry fifteen year old, to a sixteen year old that harboured the exact same feeling of resentment. He also knew that next week school was starting again, and for once in his life he desperately wanted to go, if only for the chance to shake off some of this shadowy world that he’d become a part of, in favour of a touch of something that was normal, had been a part of his life before.

 

He suspected that such a thing would be a moot point, though.

 

After all, while the sun no longer sent him into agony with its first touch, he had proved to himself that he couldn’t get on even two weeks without some physical contact with the ancient.

 

His hand curled around the knife handle, grasping it hard enough to press the pattern of it into the flesh of his palm, and he listened to the breath of the night air, wishing desperately that something would disturb it. He wanted something that he could actually fight, rather than something that he had no choice but to live with for now.

 

No luck though. The night was as still as an empty grave.

 

And Ethan (in spite of his hatred for it, his slip-ups, calling it by name were becoming more and more frequent) had told him that he was to be back by four. If he hurried then he would probably make it on time. And, in spite of the fact that it had told him that it didn’t want to force him into a roll of subservience, it had also proved to him that disobedience wouldn’t be tolerated, whether by the sharp reprimand of a stinging blow from belt or palm, or simply leaving him to think about things for a day or so, chained back to the bed.

 

The collar, fused by magic as it was, had become something of a permanent feature. But these days when he did something to really piss it off, it was met with by a heavy bronze-plated choker, much like something that a large dog would have been pressed into. And again, fused by magic that he couldn’t get a grasp under the edges of, it was something that he couldn’t do a single thing about.

 

It hadn’t taken him too long to figure that he was meant to ask ‘how high’ on the way up, when it told him to jump. Of course there were times when he pressed his luck, but after the last indiscretion which had seen him struck by a belt that it occasionally wore, after it had tied him back, and following up by leaving him for a couple of days without food or water, he wasn’t too keen to try it again this soon after.

 

Unbound by human conventionalities as it was, Ethan was hard on him.

 

Without letting his hand drift from the knife, he cut into a narrow alley, only lifting his hand when he hit the end of it, so that he could boost himself up and throw himself over the top of the old tin fence that was there, and dodged across a quiet street into the mouth of another alley which led to nowhere. He crossed several streets in this manner, before turning down a street, lined with wide sections and large houses, where it kept its home here.

 

Fishing the key out of the pocket where it was tucked in beside the knife, he slipped it into the lock and turned it, letting himself in. The front hall was empty, but the sound of a pained whimper drew him down its length, and into the sitting room, in spite of the fact that everything, at that sound was telling him to get back out of there. And over the far side of it was Ethan, in full morph, mouth over a neck wound in a person that was pale at his first glance, and had fallen completely still by the time he drawn the knife and lunged at it, swinging out hard, even though he knew that the action was pointless, that its victim was already dead.

 

He watched in something that felt oddly like shock as the knife actually sung through the air in what seemed like slow motion, and cut deeply through the muscle of its shoulder, leaving a deep wound through which he could see the white glint of bone, before blood began to wheal up in it in a way that seemed painfully slow.

 

And then the body was over the far side of the room, a dent in the wall where it had struck, and he was up against the wall on the other, its hand grasping him just below his throat so that he could still breath, and he knew that it was seeing him through nothing but the enraged senses of an interrupted, challenged predator. He saw his own death in its cold, empty yellow eyes, and its head darted towards his throat, its teeth just parting the flesh. He closed his eyes, waiting for the fatal moment, and then felt something change.

 

Almost unwillingly, he opened his eyes again, to see that it had shifted back to human, its effort to draw itself back from the edge of the kill plainly written on every feature of its face. Its teeth were still extended a little way, but they were no longer that yellowed colour and that was common enough.

 

Ethan’s self-control, as far as a vampire went, was something that he had never seen before.

 

He hadn’t realised that he was still holding the knife, with the speed at which everything had happened, but he realised it, when it grasped his wrist and twisted savagely so that he dropped it. He howled, even as its hand snatched out to grab the knife before it hit the ground, and raised the blade was at his throat, growling as it did so, a sound that reminded him again, as if he’d actually needed it, just how close to the edge it still was.

 

In response to this far more human threat, he felt his heart being to work at double its normal rate, even as the blade was twisted so that he could feel its bite against his flesh. His eyes darted over to its shoulder, and he watched at the last traces of the wound that he’d left closed over.

 

“Ethan,” he spoke in a voice that didn’t hold any power, and fought against his own instinct to fight, keeping his hands down by his sides.

 

Another flicked passed across its face, and the knife was pressed in deeper. He froze as completely as he could, no movement except for the tiny rise and fall of his chest, and his pulse, which was racing, pressing delicate skin out against the cold metal and then pulling it back in an alarming rhythm. All that it would take was a single twitch of its hand, for his blood to be spilt. And while Ethan was a cut above most of its type, he wasn’t entirely sure how much of what was going through its head at the moment was human, and how much was predatory instinct and demonic rage.

 

Finally the hand relaxed a little, something that wouldn’t have been noticeable to someone that hadn’t been watching without a blink, but it didn’t press against him quite as sharply. And with that, he decided that it was safe to speak.

 

“What the hell is going on here? You said that you…”

 

“I said that I don’t take innocent lives. But nor, I can assure you, do I take kindly, to a person that has been twisted into trying to kill me, though elimination of… well, I suppose _you’d_ call it my weak spot. I protect my own, boy.”

 

He started, and eyed Ethan coolly, with a stare that made people cross over to the other side of the street when they crossed it.

 

“If you don’t believe me, then go ahead. She’s only freshly dead; there should still be enough of her aura left holding for you to feel it.”

 

Still mindful that all it would take was one wrong twitch for tonight to end with twice the blood spilt, he kept his eyes on its, and reached out towards the body with his sixth sense, almost shuddering as he touched it. It was… it was twisted, had been forced into something that she had no control over, violent impulse and twisted order woven against something that had no place alongside it, in a person that didn’t have a _natural_ trace of violence in her.

 

He stared at it, realizing, for the first time, exactly what was going on. An intelligent predator like it was would see any threat to itself and its own as something that had had to be removed. And as those cold eyes, now brown again narrowed at him, he realised exactly how much trouble he was in.

 

“And nor do I take kindly to fools turning against me.”

 

The blade drifted from his neck, down lightly over the material of his shirt, and then Ethan snapped it back inside the handle and pocketed it with its free hand.

 

“I think I’ll hang onto this, for now.”

 

“Ethan, please,” he gasped, as the blade was tucked away.

 

“Ethan. Please, what?” it growled at him again, a deep, guttural sound that echoed from the back of its throat, and one that he had never been all that fond of.

 

“I’m sorry,” still, he kept his hands pressed flat against the wall, unmoving. And it let go of his throat, but the relief was short-lived.

 

“No, you’re not. Not yet. But believe me; you will be before the day is out. You’ll be very sorry indeed.”

 

It turned, and strode over to the wall, picking up the body by the back of its neck, raising it from the ground like a child grabbing back a rag doll that it had tossed in a tantrum. Then, it paused at the doorway, body dangling from its grasp, and looked back at him.

 

“I need to take care of this,” he squeezed the back of the body’s neck for emphasis, and Rupert found himself wincing at the sharp cracking sound that it caused, “and I’ll be back in half an hour or so. By the time I return, I want you ready and waiting. And if you know what’s good for you, which is a thing that I sincerely doubt at times, you’ll be on your knees.”

 

Rupert forced his fear back down, and bowed his head. There was a time for fire, and for rage, and the depths that it could take him to, but this wasn’t that time. Instead, he made his body language as submissive as he could, and held his position, until he heard the door closing sharply behind it.

 

And then, only then did he give into complete, utter panic, his legs going out from under him without Ethan’s malevolent presence there to keep him pinned by force of will. Blackness danced out from the corners of his vision, and he slipped, boneless down the wall as he drew in huge gasps of air. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, simply breathing, but by the time his vision had cleared completely and he became conscious of the minutes slipping by, it felt like it had been far too long.

 

Closing his eyes, he rested his chin on the tops of his drawn-up knees, and reached down blindly to wrestle with his first shoelace.

 

“Fuck, I’m in trouble,” he muttered to himself, pulling the shoe off his foot even as he turned his options over in his mind.

 

Rather pointless, when he’d made his choice already, but at least it gave him something other to focus on. He started work on the other foot, as he wondered how far he could possibly get in half an hour. Probably actually pretty far, considering the fact that this area was rather busy, but he couldn’t stay away for long enough to make it count, and when it caught up to him this time, it might not be feeling as generous as it had last time. He had other knives tucked away, and there was one that he could possibly decapitate it with, out in the kitchen drawer. But that led him back to the point that if he fucked it up then he was doubly fucked. And if he killed it, then he, himself was dead. There were spells that he could have thrown at it, or he could have cast a barrier, but those rather led back to the problem that was presented by the first option.

 

Unable to stop the trembling in his muscles he made himself stand again and leaning against the wall once again for support he raised a hand to investigate what he was sure would become a bruise just under his neck in a few hours time. And at thought he chuckled to himself; because it was likely that by then, he would have far more than a single solitary bruise to worry over.

 

He put his shoes out by the front door, and tugging off his jacket he hung it up on a coat hook. Then he pulled his shirt off over his head, and folded it, putting it to one side on a chair, holding absolutely no illusions about exactly what Ethan’s… its instructions had meant.

 

Grabbing a fresh hold of himself, he bit hard at the inside of his lip and with fingers that were shaking even worse than they had been before, he undid the button on his jeans and slipped them and his boxers off as well, folding them and placing them on top of his shirt. The boxers, on the other hand, were tossed towards the washhouse, as he mounted the stairs to the main bedroom, trying not to think too much about what he was doing.

 

He was cold, by now, but he was used to being cold. That was another thing that sleeping next to a vampire did. Trusting that at least he would hear the front door opening in time, he settled himself into the chair near the door, and stared at the wallpaper, thinking about nothing more pressing then what he wanted for dinner or breakfast the next time that he got a chance to eat. Even thought the thought of actually eating was making his stomach do back flips at the moment.

 

The second that he heard the sound of the door closing and locking he was in motion. He knew that he was probably pressing a little at the edges of its orders by heading upstairs, but he figured that was something he could probably get away with. And then he heard the sound of metal, and it spoke and he realised that he had presumed too much.

 

“Down here, now,” it called up, and he made his was down the stairs, wishing that some stray bolt of magic would hit him in mid step and make him take the rest of the stairs head over heels so that he would be unconscious when he reached it.

 

No such luck though, of course.

 

He came into the hallway before the front door, head lowered and eyes raised so that he could see where he was going, but stopping just short of meeting its gaze. He wanted to ask what exactly it had in mind, but as he opened his mouth to speak it raised a hand.

 

“I thought I told you that I wanted you waiting on you knees.”

 

Without lifting his gaze any further, he dropped where he was, again biting his lip against his natural inclination to talk. Head lowered, one knee flat and the other raised, hands resting on it, he waited for what felt like both an eternity and far too short a space of time.

 

He felt its approach, and then a hand that was still warm, even in spite of the chill early morning air came to rest on his cheek and tilted his head upwards. The heavy metal choker was lowered around his neck, and it closed its hand over the joining link, pulling it through and onto the other side of it. Then it grabbed his hair with the other hand and pulled his head back sharply, and with the hand that was now free it undid its own trousers and let them slip down its legs before stepping out of them, and kicking them back. It tugged sharply and he gasped; the sound as much pain as anything else, although he still dared not raise his hands, and it stepped closed and slipped its cock into his mouth.

 

Even that was still human-warm. He sucked without prompting, drawing it as far back into his mouth as he safely could, and it held his head steady by his hair, and fucked his mouth for a few moments, the salty flavour and warmth of its cock something he was so unused to, that he spent most of the time readjusting. It didn’t take long for it to tire of that though, and soon it stepped back and pulled out, dragging him to his feet with a sharp tug on the choker.

 

Still wordless, he rose to his feet and followed half a step behind as it mounted the steps taking him back into the main bedroom.

 

A hard shove sent him stumbling, and then as it came towards him again he had no idea where the cuffs in its hand had come from. He was dragged up by his hair again, and the cuffs were snapped around his wrists and attached to a link which came from the chain that attached to the choker. It then snapped that into place as well, and stood staring at him from the foot of the bed. He may not have known where the cuffs came from, but he knew the knife that it drew out of its pocket as it shed its shirt and singlet was his.

 

And now his heart really jumped into his throat as he figured another part of it out, and tried to draw away instinctively until he hit the point where he was drawing the choker tight around hit own neck. It was planing to use his own knife on him, which was something that was so far out there to his mind, that he had never ruled it in.

 

It cast the rest of its clothing to the side, and snapped the knife blade out, before turning and tugging a belt out of the drawer.

 

“I want you on your hands and knees; and right now.”

 

With more than a little awkwardness he obeyed, lowering his head as the first blow struck him, leather singing through the air just before it made contact. That tiny strip across him where it actually struck went numb on contact, and warmth blossomed to either side of it, but it certainly wasn’t a blow of prehuman strength. Giles closed his eyes tightly, and kept his gratitude for the small mercies as several other blows, all of which overlapped were laid across the first.

 

But again, it wasn’t long before this, too, was cast to the side. He didn’t dare look up, even as the blade, which had been chilled once again by the surrounding air, was laid against the skin of his back.

 

“So,” the tip of the blade drifted up lightly up over his back, to rest against the skin at the top of his shoulder, nowhere near hard enough to part the flesh, but he knew as he fisted his left hand, that would come soon enough, “I find myself wondering what exactly you were planning, when you pulled this on me?”

 

Now the tip was dug into his flesh, still lightly, but hard enough, and he knew exactly what the knife was capable of, because there had already been a couple of times when he’d used it himself.

 

“What exactly did you expect to achieve?”

 

It wasn’t expecting an answer, he knew that, too. It had told him, abet without words to keep his mouth shut, and he planned on doing exactly that. He hissed against the pillow, as it was drawn down to the point just below his shoulder blade, and he felt its sting and a touch of warmth along a line that seconds later really didn’t feel like much at all.

 

Its tongue left a lukewarm trail along the same path, as it leaned forward and swept it up it, before he felt the blade lift again, and set against a point maybe a third of the way down the first line. This one cut over and straight across the first, before it curved and swept down, coming to a point just below where the first line ended. Again, he felt that sting, followed by warmth and nothing along the actual point of the cut, which was chased along by a tongue that was curved slightly, so that nothing went to waste.

 

Mentally, he tried to keep track of it, to figure out what obviously wasn’t just a random series of cuts, as the blade traced several more lines on him, all of which intersected with the first two. Then, with a grin that he couldn’t see, it sat back and rested a pair of fingertips in the centre of the pattern and said something in a language that he couldn’t readily identify.

 

He cried out aloud, as a flash of white hot pain flared through the cuts and then faded to a steady dull throb. And then it answered the question that he hadn’t dared to voice.

 

“It’ll stop the blood flow after a certain point, heal the wound afterwards, and replenish what you lose within a few minutes.”

 

He struggled to control his breathing, as the cold fingers of fear played over him again. Because it was obvious from those words that it actually intended to hurt him today, if nothing else. He could feel its silent chuckle as his heart went into overtime again, through those two fingers which were still pressed firmly against his back.

 

“And you won’t be in a hurry to challenge me again, will you?”

 

This time the blow which landed across his right shoulder told him that it expected an answer from him, when he held his silence.

 

“No, I won’t. I won’t do it again.”

 

With that, it pressed the blade against the skin on the other side of his shoulder, and dug down as it drew it down, and it didn’t just sting, it actually hurt. And it was obvious that it knew the point between too much and not enough, too, because it wasn’t digging the blade even a quarter as deep as it could have gone, which would have left a deep, numb wound that he didn’t think that he would feel before the spell that it had marked onto his back, whatever that was, kicked in and closed it.

 

The fingers that were pressed against him rose, and a heartbeat later he snarled as one of the nails was raked down the cut, followed once again by the tongue along it. And after what felt like half a minute of it chasing the wound, a flash of something that felt like fire passed through it, and while it still stung like shit afterwards where it had been, he felt its movement through the mattress as it sat back, and heard clearly the sound of approval that it made. He couldn’t stop himself from trembling, a fine, constant movement through his muscles, and he _knew_ that it had barley started.

 

Again the blade ghosted over him, this time from a point just above the small of his back, and he tried to still himself, as his breath came in rapid pants. It pressed down and into him at a point about halfway up, and then drew upwards, again stopping at the same point as it had before. Another line was run beside it, this one travelling down, and then the blade flashed upwards again, bringing the total to three. And this time he knew exactly what to expect, but it still didn’t stop it from hurting like hell.

 

“Shit,” he snarled, and knew that he’d made another mistake, when its nails were set against him again, this time at the top of the wounds. They dragged painfully down, and he tensed himself for the presence of the tongue, something that would be almost soothing after that, but this time it didn’t come. Instead, it tugged the nails down the other side of his back, just below whatever the hell that rune was, sans knife, until he felt the burning bite of those ones healing as well.

 

For what felt like an age, to him, it toyed with him in such a way, only occasionally adding its tongue to the mix, until his back was nothing more than a crossing mass of stinging, healed wounds, and he wasn’t just trembling but shaking, biting so hard at the pillow that he could feel his own teeth through the other side in an effort not to voice the curses that were running through his head. It was careful not to disturb the rune, but that was the only part of him that went untouched.

 

He had trouble actually believing he wasn’t hearing things, made delirious by what was being done to him, when he felt it move again and heard the click of metal being set down on wood. Opening his eyes, he flicked his gaze sideways, and saw that he hadn’t. The knife had been set down on the bedside table.

 

As he stole his glance, he felt a blood-slick finger trailing down the course of his spine, and slipping just inside of him with ease. He couldn’t summon any tension against it, not after that. And that also told him what he’d suspected, but hoped against for the last while; that on top of all of that it was still planning to take him.

 

Its fingers, still lukewarm as they were, thanks to the body that it drained, and then a small top-up of his own blood, slipped inside of him no further than the second knuckle, then the hand twisted, and it drew back out. And even that didn’t hurt half as much as it once had, although he tried to put that to the fact that his body was in shock. There could be no way that he enjoyed the way that it took him, no way at all.

 

“Out of the fucking question,” he relaxed his death-grip on the pillow, although he didn’t realise that he’d spoken out loud until it planted another one of those stinging slaps against his side.

 

And with that, those fingers were pushed in all the way, and then it began to move them in and out, giving and taking no more than a few centimetres, until he couldn’t bite back the moan that had been building any longer. As soon as he uttered the noise, it drew out of him again, and raised itself so that it was no longer resting on his legs, holding him in place.

 

It settled back, and then snapped another instruction at him.

 

“Roll over. I want you on your back.”

 

Awkwardly, realising how little support shaking limbs gave, and slowly because he didn’t want to choke himself, he pulled himself towards headboard, and rolled, twisting his head so that the choker around his neck moved freely as he did so. Then, without further prompting, he rested himself back down on his back, looking at it.

 

Its teeth were still extended, and it was still wearing a human face on top of that, once again demonstrating that iron self-control, although it must have been helped at least in part by the fact that it had only recently drunk its full.

 

It settled on its knees, and grasped his legs by the ankles, pushing them up upwards, and then to either side, before it shifted itself up the bed, encouraged him to raise his hips from the mattress, and slipped into him as he did.

 

He moaned as it filled him, telling himself as he did so, that it was a sound of reluctance and hatred, as it stretched him, and pushed his legs further apart so that it could take him deeper. Moving slowly, so that it didn’t pull free, it changed its position, but kept its hips low, so that it was on all fours above him, its stomach trapping his cock between himself and it. With the expression on its face softening, it pressed its lips to his, and slid its tongue forward, asking for entry. Giles parted his lips, didn’t flinch as its fangs grazed his lips and a metallic taste flooded his mouth, or as its tongue pressed inwards and stroked against his, in a gesture that was far more human than any that he’d come to expect from it.

 

It kissed him deeply, as its hips bet out a slow steady rhythm, pushing into, and then pulling from him. Its tongue circled his, and it buried itself fully in him, hitting that spot which sent a running jolt through him, and made his cock fully hard. As it felt him stiffen, it pulled back from his mouth, and rose onto its knees again, then grasped his cock with one hand and began to pound into him with strokes that sent a jolt through his body with every one of them. It squeezed him, and stroked him, each action met by one of those brutal thrusts, and as soon as felt that dizzying, drop-away effect of approaching orgasm, it fell across him again, and buried its teeth into the flesh on the right side of his throat, far away from any veins or arteries.

 

He felt that sharp tugging of it sucking a mouthful from him as he came, shooting into the air, and between the two sensations the world went grey, and didn’t come back until a few moments later, as he felt its cock twitch in side of him, as it came too, with his blood on its lips.

 

As the world came back, he felt that flash of white pain through his neck as the spell closed that wound, too, and he felt it as the choker and cuffs were released, heard the sound of metal on meatal, metal on wood, as they were both dropped off to the side. It rose from the bed and stood, and as he sat up after it he felt something still holding him back.

 

It was the sheet; not so much a sheet now as it was a bloody mess. It grasped it, drawing it lose, and then tucked an arm under his shoulder, helping him to legs that he wasn’t sure could support him.

 

“Think you can make it to the bathroom, clean yourself up while I take care of this?” it gestured with its head towards the mess of the bed, and waited for an answer that was a few minutes in coming.

 

“Why?” he finally said. He couldn’t see anything in moving that gave the idea all the much appeal.

 

“Why, is because I want you under a shower. The way that you smell at the moment is making me hungry again.”

 

He could see from the dark glint in its eye, that no matter how much that may have sounded like a bad joke, it actually wasn’t.

 

“Yeah, can make it just fine,” he growled back.

 


	8. Chapter 7 – The Weight of the World (And the Weight of Life)

** Chapter 7 – The Weight of the World (And the Weight of Life) **

“I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to dream  
Cause my dreams no company, the way you make me feel”  
\- Skillet – Comatose

 

“Oh,” he groaned to himself, as he stirred with the fall of the evening, and reached a hand around behind him, to try to relieve some of that infernal itching that the scratches of the day previous had left behind.

 

And again, his body ached, although he was forced to admit that it wasn’t as bad as it had been after the last few times. Quietly, as per habit, he rolled out of the bed and cut through to the bathroom, and by the time he came back in, it was fully dressed, and looked to be waiting for him.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

“None of your fucking business; _feeling_ is a human thing, nothing to do with a thing like you.”

 

The side of its mouth tugged up, in amusement, and it fished his knife out of the drawer in the bedside table, and tossed it to him. In spite of his surprise, he still snatched it out of the air with a downward swipe, and then he looked at it again.

 

“The itching will fade as the rune does. In around a week it’ll be gone, and you’ll be back to your old stubborn self, I’m sure. Although I do hope that the next time you’ll think a little longer before taking action.”

 

It rose and circled him twice, before coming to a pause by the door.

 

“I’ll be back in a couple of days. Something to see to, shouldn’t take any longer than that. I’ll expect you to keep your wits about you while I’m gone.”

 

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. Somehow the words _don’t bother returning_ refused to be summoned, and anything else just felt false.

 

Instead, he settled for silence again, least Ethan leave him with a parting blow, and watched as it descended the stairs, and slipped out into the early evening, which hadn’t yet quite lost its touch of blues darker shades.

 

Two days, was two full nights which he would have solely to himself. Feeling a little more benevolent to the world in general at this particular moment, although he knew that it wouldn’t last, he grabbed his things, made sure that his key was in his pocket, and headed out into the night himself.

Town was still reasonably busy at this time of evening, people haring to and fro, racing to get the last of that day’s supplies, or to ready things for tomorrow, or whatever else they may have been doing.

 

Rupert watched the activity not without amusement, as teenagers darted over the road stepping out between cars, and people lugged briefcases out of buildings and to waiting vehicles. One elderly looking lady was stuck halfway across the road, waiting for a gap in the traffic that didn’t look like it would ever come.

 

And there, he felt a pang of envy, as he watched people going about their normal lives, at the end of what was, for them, a normal day. He had been right, of course.

 

His good mood hadn’t had a chance of surviving for long, although a tiny touch of it still clung on with grim desperation. He supposed he could put that down to the after-effects of having made it through what Ethan had thrown at him yesterday. He doubted that it had done its worst; that hadn’t felt like the culmination of a couple thousand years practise after all, but he had still made it through it. Admittedly without all that much grace, but that hardly mattered.

 

He wondered what peoples reactions would be, if they were to find out that a monster lived only a short way from here. He wondered how many would have forgotten it by the next morning, and how many would stay safely shut up in doors from the moment the sun sunk it the sky.

 

He watched, a slight frown on his face as the old lady made it to the conclusion of her perilous crossing, and walked a couple of feet down the road to get into her own car, and a hand coming to rest on his shoulder startled him from his tiny world of thought. Even as he clamped down on his reaction, which was to spin a drop into a fighting stance, knife in hand, a voice that he recognized spoke to him.

 

“Rupert?”

 

“Yeah?” he brushed off the hand, again wondering where his usually ever-present anger had stalked off to, and turned to face the speaker, and man who he had in the past known as one of his fathers friends, but who had still made overtures of friendship towards the young man in spite of the age difference.

 

He wanted to snarl a response that would have him wondering why he’d tried to talk to him, but he couldn’t find the energy to. Tristan Addams looked him up and down, taking in the changes in the boy, the hard set to his expression, the years that had accumulated in his eyes, the touch of physical pain in his stance.

 

“So what the hell did you want, then?”

 

He didn’t flinch from the boy’s language.

 

“What I wanted was to talk to you. I’ve seen you around town a few times before, but…” he trailed off, and rethought where exactly that sentence was going to, “anyway, come back to mine? I’m sure I could rustle us up a bite to eat, or a nightcap or something, and we could talk a little. And if you didn’t have a place to stay tonight…”

 

“Do I look like I’m living on the fucking street?” there that anger he’d been after was.

 

“No, I never thought that, not for a moment,” Tristan tried to dig himself out of the hole that he’d stepped into, and Rupert had to give him credit for that, “in fact, I think you’re looking rather well. But you still look like you could use someone to talk to.”

 

It hadn’t actually been a direct invitation into the man’s house, a rule that hadn’t yet passed for him, but he was sure that he could wangle it subtly enough. His hesitance was in how little time he’d actually spent around people lately, in any real sense of company. And he was afraid that if he went back, and started talking then he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. And while Tristan was a decent enough bloke, he was still Council. And the Council, if they knew, were probably more likely to hunt Ethan down and kill it, never mind that it would be the end of him as well, than they would be to suffer the presence of a person that was once meant to be a Watcher, bound to a vampire.

 

But maybe that would be a good thing. Pass the decision to someone else, and let them take care of it. That way the weight of his own death wouldn’t be in his own hands any more.

 

“Yeah, I’d quite like that, I think.”

 

“I’m on foot; you don’t mind a little bit of a walk do you?”

 

Rupert bit back his automatic reply, which had been _dead man’s walk,_ and shrugged, “Not at all.”

 

Even as they walked through the steadily deepening night, Tristan began to sound him out, “So, how long have you been back around town?”

 

“Long enough; couple of months or there about.”

 

He could have asked the next question with him word for word, that was how ready he was for it.

 

“Does your father know that you’re back? Have you been to seen him, spent any time with him?”

 

“Yes I have, and no, not really.”

 

“Any particular reason why not, Rupert? The last few times I’ve seen him, he’s looked exhausted, and he’s never far from a book. Maybe if you spent a little time with him, it would be easier on the both of you.”

 

“It’s none of your fucking business why; don’t you think that if everything could be solved by heading back there, then I wouldn’t have done it already?” Again, he felt himself wrestling ire, although with less success than he usually would have had.

 

And Tristan took note of a subject that was best left avoided, and decided to save anything further for once he had the boy back at his.

 

It was another fifteen minutes on top of the five that they’d already spent walking, before Tristan was turning up towards a house that had a black car parked out the front of it, and opening the door. Through the hallway, he could see a fire in the sitting room, that had had backlogs put on it, and could feel the warmth that had been building inside. Holding his breath, but without any real hope, he extended a hand towards the door, as causally as possible. Maybe this would be the day that he won.

 

But he wasn’t surprised when he was stopped at the point where the door would have closed to, anyway.

 

Tristan was halfway down the hall, before he realised that he was by himself. And by that time Rupert had drawn his hand back, and was thinking quickly, trying to work out the best way around this. But nothing jumped out at him.

 

“Weren’t you going to join me?”

 

Close, but still not an actual invitation. Which left only one possibility; and that was to ask. Crossing his arms he leaned casually against the solid presence of the barrier, and looking, for all the world was worth, like a mime leaning against the wall of an imaginary box, he scowled at the man.

 

“Not that I wouldn’t like to, you see, but I appear to be lacking something essential. It’s an invitation.”

 

Seconds later, shock on his face, the man had snatched an ornamental silver antique cross on the wall, and was advancing on him. And Rupert found himself grateful that it wasn’t all of the rules that held fast for him. The second the armed hand had crossed the air where the barrier was, he snatched the cross out of his hand, making sure that Tristan could see that he was actually holding it squarely in the palm of his hand with no burning flesh, and no pain.

 

Raising it into the air, and making like he was studying it, he bit back a grin. In spite of himself, he was amused.

 

“Huh. It’s a pretty thing, really. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it looks like it’s a sixteenth century piece?” With that, he tossed it casually back to the man who had retreated back inside the safety of his own home.

 

And with the way that Tristan was looking at him, he didn’t seem to have taken in a single word of Rupert’s banter. He heaved a sigh to himself.

 

“It’s a long story, but no, I haven’t been changed. Think about it, if I had been, if I’d wanted to kill you, then I’d have done it out in the open. I certainly wouldn’t have walked you home, and waited until you were out of my reach.”

 

He could still read the unwillingness to believe it on the man’s face.

 

“Look, I’ve even got a pulse.”

 

He gestured with a finger, and tilted his head to one side, inviting him to feel it. Tristan crept slowly forward, and hesitated before the barrier, all of a sudden very aware of where exactly it was positioned. Rupert bit his lip to hide his annoyance, told himself that he didn’t blame the man, that if their positions had been reversed then he’d be just as wary, and kept his head held at that awkward angle, as his hand slowly crept out, and expertly found the pulse point, coming across it with a look of surprise, as though he hadn’t expected it to be there.

 

It jumped back the second that he found it, still, and he turned and headed towards the kitchen this time.

 

“Now I really need that glass of gin. And I’d say you do, too.”

 

He waited until he was halfway down the hall again.

 

“Planning on bringing the bottle out here, were you? I must concede that it’s a rather refreshing evening at the moment, but I’m sure that it’ll get cold soon enough. Of course, if you needed further proof, you could always take up guard for the night, and watch as I _don’t_ burst into flame, come morning.”

 

Again, Tristan turned back around, and Rupert read real reluctance in his expression; reluctance, and a touch of fear. Could see the dip of his throat even from back here, as he swallowed thickly, and the change of his expression as he braced himself, looking like he was kicking himself all the while, wondering if he was about to make a huge mistake.

 

“Please, come in Rupert.”

 

He stepped across the barrier, winced as the natural wards of a home made his skin prickle and the former cuts on his back throb, and closed the door behind him heading down into the sitting room to take up a spot in front of that inviting looking fireplace.

 

“Thanks,” he said completely sincere, as he sunk into one of the more comfortable looking chairs of the collection, and closed his eyes so that he could begin to gather his thoughts, for what would effectively be turning himself over to the Council.

 

Then he stood again, paced for a few moments, and shrugged off his leather jacket placing it over the arm of the seat that he’d chosen, and undid his button-up over-shirt and put that on top of it, so that he was down to his tee-shirt and the first thing that Tristan would see on his return would be Ethan’s mark on his forearm. Maybe everything would naturally spiral out from that point.

 

He grunted to himself, “and maybe pigs will fly,” as he sunk back into the chair.

 

And it was at that moment that Tristan came into the room, an unopened bottle of gin in one hand and two glasses in the other. These were all set down on the small table that was set between the two chairs in the centre, and Rupert waited for him to sit down as well, but instead he stayed on his feet.

 

“Did you… ah, that is to say, did you want anything to eat, Rupert?”

 

“No thanks. I’m fine, not really hungry.”

 

That was the honest truth, too. He hadn’t had much of an appetite since he’d tackled Ethan with the knife out.

 

“Okay, then.”

 

He cracked open the bottle and poured both himself and his unexpected guest a glass of the drink, even as he eyed the black rune on Rupert’s forearm with a gaze that didn’t drift, and he sunk down into the chair next to him.

 

Rupert emptied the glass in one shot before he pushed it out again for a refill and shifted his position so that he was facing Tristan directly, even as the man displayed his own self control.

 

“The short version of it is,” Rupert finally broke the silence again, as he took a tiny sip from his glass, and set it back down, “is that I managed to get myself into a situation that I can’t seem to be able to get myself out of.”

 

“And as for the long version, Rupert; how does that one go?”

 

He held himself together, breathing in and out deeply, and then focused on nothing more vital than the sound of his own voice, picking his flight from home not that far shy of a year ago as his starting point. Of course Tristan interrupted to ask why, but Rupert simply ignored the question and carried on around it, dropping into detail again over the night some four months ago, when he’d had the bad luck to cross paths with the gang that had been on edge.

 

_It wasn’t far after 10 o’clock, but most people seemed to have hurried indoor, some tiny sense of survival telling them to stay inside. Tonight all that he could feel in the air was a malice that was far from ordinary._

_There was something going down somewhere, tonight, and although he wasn’t sure where exactly that somewhere was, he could sure as hell feel the aura from it poisoning the night. Even he wanted nothing more than to get off the street, out of the night for tonight at least, and behind closed doors and sold walls that would keep him from whatever the hell it was that was happening._

_Not that he thought walls would keep him safe from an apocalypse, if that was what it was, but at least he would feel safe while the world was going down in flames around him._

_There was another amusing thought in that, too. If the world ended tonight, then he wouldn’t have to worry about finding or snatching anything to eat tomorrow, either._

_Lowering his head, and flicking the collar of his leather jacket up in an attempt to keep out the chill of the winter wind, then plunged his hands into his pockets and kept walking in the direction of the glow in the ait that was London._

_He was only about half an hour out of the city limits, and he was bound to be able to find a place to tuck down for the rest of the night in the city. After all, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and one thing that was almost guarantied was that there were empty places in the big cities, places that had been cleared out, or condemned, or just plain abandoned._

_London had been the first place that he’d hit when he’d first left, but he’d moved around a lot since then, trying (unsuccessfully, he suspected, but trying none the less) to stay ahead of the Council’s trackers, which he had a feeling had been dogging his footsteps ever since the night that he’d run._

_If nothing else, at least they hadn’t picked him up again yet._

_He wondered if his father had told them why, exactly, he’d turned his back on home. He couldn’t see it from here, but then again, maybe the old man had decided to face up to the fact that he’d screwed up. And maybe tomorrow the weather reports would call for a snowstorm in hell._

_The cold winter moon watched his thoughtful progress, and by the time he actually hit the outskirts of the city proper, it was playing hide and seek with the clouds. And the dark taint of the night was only growing stronger._

_Which meant that maybe London hadn’t been such a hot idea, although he supposed that it made sense; if the world was going to end tonight, then why the hell shouldn’t the foci be somewhere in that dark mess of a city, as shrouded in history and a conglomerate of both human and demonic culture as it was?_

_The appropriateness of it didn’t make him feel any more at ease with it, though._

_As he cut down a street, in which the street lighting wasn’t working he heard the sound of people somewhere up ahead; marked out by cold laughter and the swaggering confidence of the extremely intoxicated._

_He could pick out at least seven different people, could tell them apart by the variance in tone and pitch, another one of those things that a Watcher-in-Training was taught how to do, so that odds could be judged properly, and battles that weren’t possible to gain a victory in were able to be avoided. Human voice was far easier to judge, than demonic tone and variance._

_After all, another Slayer could be called easily enough, but at least if that Watcher survived then he could pass on what he knew to the next one up to the plate. Because while book-learning was all well and good up to a point, there was nothing that could compensate for what field experience brought to the show. And if the new Slayer was to be thrown straight into an Apocalypse, then who better to help throw her into it, than the Watcher that had seen the last one die?_

_Tucking his head a little lower, as a freezing drizzle began to fall, he crossed to the other side of the road so that he could swing out wide, around the bus shelter that the gang had staked out. He shot a glance over to the other side of the road as he drew even with it, and saw that his estimate had been right. Seven boys, all older-looking than he was, in a lose group, matching patches on their jackets, all with hair that was shaved on one side of their heads, and long on the other._

_And the group fell into silence as he passed. Telling himself not to look back, he kept his head down, and carried on down the street at his unhurried pace. The way that violence crackled in the air tonight, he knew that even for people that wouldn’t recognize magic if it up and bit them on the arse, it would still only take one tiny thing to set them off._

_He kept his pace until he was half-way to the corner, and then the sound of footsteps made him break the rules that he’d imposed on himself, and he glanced back. So, apparently it wouldn’t even take that._

_The boys had spread out into a half-circle like a pack would have, and were closing, eyes glowing with pale blue light in the darkness, giving him pause to wonder what the hell they actually were; half-bloods, maybe, or something that could simply take a human form?_

_He didn’t think that it would be a wise idea to stop and ask them, though, for some strange reason._

_As he hit the next corner he risked another glance backwards, and saw how much ground they’d gained over the short course of a block, and realised that he wouldn’t be able to shake them. Spinning on his heel, he dropped instantly into a fighting stance; weight held evenly across his feet as he fisted his hands and prepared to meet them._

_If they’d been human then he might have stood a chance; after all while youth couldn’t make up for numbers he had been trained to fight since he was old enough to take instruction. Briefly he considered him knife, but he knew even as the thought passed through his mind, that that was a stupid idea._

_A weapon that you couldn’t keep control of belonged to your enemy, and in a case like this if all that they were out for was to cause damage, then he didn’t want to hand them a reason and the means with which to slit his throat._

_As the first one caught up to him, he tried to toss it back with magic, as winced as the spell slid right off him, like water off a duck’s back._

_The bloke cracked a grin at the young man._

_“Oh, that almost tickled.”_

_Giles threw up a quick shield around himself, just as the leader swung at him, and he didn’t find it overly surprising when the blow went through it like it wasn’t even there. The fist caught him hard in the chest, and he saw white flash in front of his eyes as he dropped like a stone, gasping for a breath. While he could still think he curled himself into a ball in order to protect what he could, and then the rest of the pack caught up._

_He wasn’t sure what was coming from where, and they weren’t only hitting and kicking, but flashing out with claws that he would swear on his grandmother’s bible hadn’t been there before. The scratches weren’t enough to be anything more than a minor annoyance, unless their claws turned out to be poisoned or something of the sort, but under the brunt of the beating that he was taking, that was small comfort._

_He could pinpoint the exact moment that a pair of ribs snapped. It was the moment when the world went black._

_When he came to he was on his side still on the pavement, blood on the concrete near his head. The feel of malevolence had passed from the atmosphere._

_And he was alone._

_It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful to still be alive, but he wished he knew why they’d left. Had it simply become boring after he’d passed out, or had someone drove them off, or had the attack only been because of the night’s poisoned aura, the drive towards violence passing when it had?_

_He tried to breathe in, and discovered that his nose was blocked up. Bracing himself, he slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position, and was surprised that it didn’t hurt as much as he thought it should have. Of course he also knew that his body was probably in shock at the moment to._

_Taking a deep breath he pressed a finger to one side of his nose and forced the air out, spraying more blood onto the ground. Now that hurt like hell, though._

_He drew fresh breath in, in quick pants, and found himself wishing that the right half of his nose was still blocked, as the sickening smell of charred flesh hit him, and he retched all of a sudden grateful that he hadn’t found anything to eat for the last couple of days._

_Straining his eyes against the blackness, he picked out a pile of blackened bones in a shape that no-one would ever mistake for human. So, they hadn’t been impervious to magic after all, they’d just had thick skins. And he’d obviously lose control of himself, as he’d passed out._

_Gritting his teeth he forced himself to his feet, and breathing gingerly, lightly, he slowly made his was down the rest of the street, on a leg that hurt like fuck every time it made contact with the ground and no longer wanted to support him. He didn’t know where the hell he was going to, aside from the fact that he had to get out of there._

_The piles of bone may not have looked human, but they would still bring up awkward questions come the morning._

_Stopping at the corner to catch his breath again, he grabbed onto a signpost and leaned heavily into it for a few moments, knowing that if he went down now then he would probably stay down._

_Where the hell were the Council’s cronies when he actually needed them?_

“I’m not entirely sure how I got through those next few weeks. I dragged myself from place to place, through day to day. I certainly wasn’t thinking about where I was going or where I was. And I knew that I was pretty bad off, but I didn’t realize exactly how bad I was.”

 

Falling back into the memory of his pain and fear, Giles stared at the fireplace without really seeing it, and was dragged back to the present only as Tristan refilled his own empty glass.

 

Shaking his head he shot the man an apologetic smile, as he tried to sort out the next part of his story.

 

“Anyway, eventually I came across an old house. It was about three weeks later, I figure these days, although I wasn’t keeping track of the time then. It was…” Giles threw back the contents of his glass for fortification, and braced himself, “well, it was a suck-house. And I was hoping that I might be able to get a bed out of it, use the innate magic of a place like that to nudge my own in the right direction, towards healing. I figured a few days, and then I’d be well enough to be off on my own again.”

 

He watched the wince that passed over Tristan’s face, and sat staring as the play of firelight across his dark features, yellow across a smooth forehead and highlighting his dark hair.

 

“So it was…”

 

Giles mentally shook himself again, breathed in and held it for a few moments as his glass was refilled, and shook his head.

 

“No, it actually wasn’t. Second day there, or at least I think it was the second day, I passed out. Came to, with this on my arm,” he lifted it for emphasis, and frowned, picking up his glass again to take a small sip, “in another place. There I was so very kindly informed that another few hours and I’d have been dead either way, and that I’d lost over a month of my life. _That’s_ where things went from bad to worse.”

 

He stood, and started to pace looking at anything aside from the man that had invited him in, as he made himself keep talking, keeping his own emotions rolled down into a tiny ball.

 

By the time that he came to the end of things, glossing over what he didn’t think the man had to hear, those things that he didn’t want to think about even to himself in words, and ignoring the fact that there was still that dark corner of his power which was saying that things already _were_ the way that they should be, the fire was burning low. Giles threw back the remnant of what must have been his fifth glass, and dropped into a crouch to toss a few bits of fresh wood on the fire.

 

He was doing anything that he could, anything at all to keep himself from having to look at the now silent man regarding him from the chair over the far side of the room, because he wasn’t sure that he wanted to see the reaction.

 

And finally the silence broke.

 

“My God, Rupert, what… I…in all honesty…I… well; I’m not sure what I’m meant to be saying to that. You know… surely you do know that I can’t keep it to myself? The Council… well, frankly the Council should have been informed as soon as it happened. Maybe someone that’s more intelligent than I am.”

 

“You said my father’s never far from a book these days. If he hasn’t found a way, yet then maybe… maybe it’s time to admit that there mightn’t be one. Maybe it’s time to give it up.”

 

He stared at the ground, and scuffed at the carpet with a foot.

 

“I would tell you to stay here, but…”

 

“But you know that I can’t,” Giles finished the sentence for him, “Besides, I’m better off there, for now.”

 

“I’ll get in contact with them. Can you come back in oh say a week’s time? I should have something for you by then.”

 

Giles started pacing again, turning it over in his head.

 

“I can try. I… I don’t know what it’s gone to do, or what it’ll be like when it gets back.”

 

“You do your best, then,” Tristan frowned, and then twisted the cap back on the gin bottle, which was just over half-empty, and stood, pressing in into the young man’s hands, “and I think that you need this, a hell of a lot more than I do.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Rupert still didn’t meet his gaze though; as he pulled his shirt and jacket back on, and tugged the zip up.

 

“I’ll be seeing you, then.”

 

“Maybe,” Giles shrugged with a single shoulder, and headed back down the hall and out the door without a single glance back.

 

He’d thought that he would feel relief, as he headed back out into what was now the very early morning, but all that he felt was numb. Now that it was done he was second guessing himself.

 

His life was out of his own hands. But then again, if he were to be honest with himself, then it hadn’t been his own life since the night that Ethan had picked him up. Or even before then, really.

 

And as his mind stumbled and he thought its name he felt a very sobering bolt pass through him. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to be in his own skin, if the Council’s almost guaranteed attempt to kill either it directly, or through him, failed.

 

He told himself to look on the bright side; as he missed a step and stumbled. At least if it worked, then by default he wouldn’t have to worry about it, because he would be dead.

 

For that matter, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be in his own skin when it found out what he’d just done, either.

 


	9. Chapter 8 – Conviction (And Fate)

** Chapter 8 – Conviction (And Fate) **

“I feel the darkness start to take me  
Now I know there is nowhere to hide”  
\- The Used – Together Burning Bright

 

Fifteen men, all older and wearing very proper clothing were sat around an old oak table, with expressions that ranged from impatience to outright annoyance.

 

And Adrian, his latest book in one hand stared at the gathering feeling all of a sudden feeling very, very uneasy. He knew that he hadn’t done anything that would warrant his being summoned by the High Council, men who only tended to involve themselves in those matters that they deemed of utmost import.

 

Which left only one real option, didn’t it?

 

“You look rather haggard, these days, Giles.”

 

That was Travers.

 

“I’m afraid that perhaps I’ve neglected my sleep a little more than I should be. I’ve been working on a project, of my own, and it’s had me burning a bit of the old midnight oil.”

 

“Please take a seat, Mr Giles.”

 

He would have rather kept standing, but it didn’t make all that much difference, really. He did as he had been asked, and placed the book on the table just beside his hand.

 

“Thank-you, Sir,” he directed his words to Travers again, and set himself back in the seat, holding himself stiffly.

 

“Let’s cut right to the point shall we?” another man to Travers left, Michaels, spoke, and he knew that his fear was about to be proven true.

 

“Yes, lets.”

 

Michaels placed a small folder up on the table, and pushed it towards the centre.

 

“Why did you neglect to tell us, not only of your son’s return, but also of his condition?”

 

He stared at the folder, wondering exactly what was in it. Was it a job termination, or an order of removal, or was it the worst-case scenario, a Death Warrant for his son? He didn’t think that the High Council would take kindly to the situation, after all, so it probably wasn’t out of the question, especially if they were looking at it from the point of view of damage control, and not seeing the cost of the human lives involved.

 

If it was a Death Warrant, then they may as well sign one for him, too, and have it done with, because it would kill what was keeping him human.

 

“I didn’t feel that it was in the best interest of either party. I… I didn’t feel that the situation warranted either your knowledge or your involvement. I made the call to look into the situation, and research it, and any possibilities, before bringing it to anyone’s attention. I didn’t wish to alarm anyone unduly.”

 

_And I didn’t want to put my son at risk._

He swallowed thickly, and waited.

 

“That’s a very proper shall we call it, yes, proper answer, Mr Giles. But I have a feeling that you’re not quite telling me everything that there is.”

 

“What… what else do you expect me to say?”

 

“All that we want is a _full_ answer.”

 

“You expect me to tell you what, that I didn’t want my only son’s name on your bloody hit-list? Is that any real surprise to you, really? You want me to tell you that I don’t trust the way that you might decide to handle things? Well you’re right, I don’t. And I don’t know how you found out, but if I could take back that knowledge then I would, too.”

 

He knew that there would be nothing to be gained aside from a fleeting feeling of self-satisfaction, by losing his rag with them, but he honestly couldn’t help himself. The stress of the last couple of months had been building up on him, and now he was being told that all of his caution was for nothing. He needed some form of outlet, and the High Council simply happened to have hit the right sequence of buttons.

 

“You’d do well to refrain from yelling at us in the future, Mr Giles.”

 

That was Abraham, Richard Abraham.

 

“We found out indirectly, from your son, himself. He gave the matter over to another one of our staff, one of your acquaintances I believe; young Tristan Addams. He assures us that Rupert well knew of his intent to inform us, and that he saw no fault with the possibility.”

 

“As it happens, our hands are tied for now as far as your son is concerned, Mr Giles.”

 

Travers spoke again.

 

“If it’s a Death Warrant that you’ve signed, then you’d be best put to draw one up for me too, because I swear to you that you’ll have to go through me first.”

 

“Please, if you’ll actually allow me to finish,” Travers was beginning to look a little frustrated, now.

 

Adrian took a deep breath and nodded.

 

“As I was saying, Mr Giles, our hands are tied to a point. It’s not as simple as eliminating him through the beast, or the beast through him, although some amongst our number wish that it were. You well know the lore, Adrian. There are many people who are Watchers but there is only one of those for each generation who is destined to be one of _the_ Watchers, bound to a Potential. _If_ it were as easy as removing him, then he would already be dead. But the portents are set; if we want him gone, then we will first have to eliminate the Potential to which he is also bound. And if the signs are being read rightly, then the Slayer of your son’s generation will need every advantage that she can get.”

 

“What exactly are you trying to say?”

 

Adrian thought that he was following, up to a point, but then every time he seemed to be figuring it out something else was thrown up out of the dark.

 

“What we’re saying; is that to eliminate him would be to risk asking fate to throw the world into Chaos. And who are we to argue with fate? Congratulations, Mr Giles. Your son lives. And you have a task that I don’t envy you for.”

 

Michaels pushed the brown folder over to him, and he raised a shaking hand to it.

 

“ _This_ is everything that we have on adventum tempestas, the beast that now goes by the name of Ethan Rayne.”

 

“But I’ve…”

 

He raised a hand, “There’s a lot more there then you’ll ever find in the books. And believe me when I say that you’ll need it all. It’s your job now, to find a way to convince a Vampire that it has to help prepare a Slayer’s Watcher to go to war.”

 

Without another word he slipped the folder off the table, and into his lap hoping that none of them saw just how badly he was trembling.

 

All of the members of the High Council rose, as one.

 

“Good luck, Mr Giles. I have a feeling that you’re going to need it.”

 

He stood as well, and nodded as he placed the folder on top of his book and picked them both up.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re dismissed,” Michaels finished formally, and Adrian left the room, feeling a profound sense of relief as the door swung closed behind him.

_Rupert was feeling twitchy. Two days with no company other then what he gave to himself, and he hadn’t been out of the house since the night that it had left. Two days that he should have been revelling in, causing chaos and raising hell, and doing whatever the hell he felt like._

_It should have come back to find the place burned down to the ground, and everything missing, in spite of what he didn’t know what it would do to him. He should have been using the time to challenge it openly in any way possible, but instead he was sitting around, feeling completely ill at ease, irritable and useless._

_He told himself that it was everything to do with the fact that he didn’t know when the Council were planning his execution for._

_That was it, of course; nothing else. Because there was nothing else that it possibly could have been. The final embers in the fireplace in the sitting room were dying as he watched, but he couldn’t be fucked getting up to either stoke it up, or turn on the lights. He was as much a creature of the darkness as it was these days, so why the hell should he bother wrestling with it?_

_Shivering he drew his legs up to his chest and closing his eyes rested his chin on his knees, as he wrapped his arms around them. He just wished that whatever the hell was going to happen, it would be soon._

_He’d never been a big fan of suspense and it seemed that even when it would be the difference between like and death that hadn’t changed._

 

Somehow two days had become four. The restlessness was worse than ever, a slight nausea had settled in his stomach, and that nagging headache was back. And he couldn’t blame any of it on the gin any more, because he’d finished that off a day and a half ago.

 

He was cold, although he only had himself to blame there as he hadn’t been bothered to light the fire again since it had gone out the other night. And yesterday he hadn’t been able to sleep, although he blamed that on the uncomfortable chair that he’d settled in.

 

Finally, at some time that felt like it was late afternoon he’d crept to the bed, only to rise again a few hours later, the change of perspective doing nothing for him.

 

He felt like something was pulling him, but he didn’t know what way to go.

 

All he wanted to know… Strike that thought, he told himself; all that he wanted to know was who the hell was keeping it away so that he could send a letter of thanks.

 

Or at the very least he’d expected some Council ‘strike-by-day’ operation. But maybe this was a part of their master plan. Keep it from him, until he was as sick as a dog, and then take him out. Because if he wasn’t able to see straight, then there was no way that he could hit back with magic, even if it was only cast out of instinct. Or maybe they were going for a more subtle approach; bar it from him, and let time do its work. Four days so far, another one or two and he would be feeling the fringe serious effects and it wouldn’t be long after that without support, that if would be over.

 

It would be hell on him, but the blood wouldn’t be on their hands directly. And if they weren’t around to see it, then they wouldn’t actually know.

 

Then he heard a sound, one that if he hadn’t been listening for he would have missed; the sound of a key in a lock.

 

He held himself down, held himself back. Told himself that all he wanted to do was fly at it, and attempt to change its mind about coming back in.

 

And what felt like half a second later he allowed himself to look up. It was already in the doorway, eyes shining from an almost non-existent light, pupils wide.

 

“This place is as cold as a tomb. And I’m speaking from experience,” it stepped into the room, and crouched down to pick up a few pieces of wood that it stacked in the fireplace, before waving a hand at it, “Incendium.”

 

Flame leapt up and engulfed the wood in seconds, then settled back into what was a slightly more controllable blaze, and as it straightened up and turned towards him, he could see exhaustion in the human façade of its expression. Quicker then the eye could follow it was before him, and pressing a hand that almost felt warm against the chill air of the place to his cheek, “You’re cold.”

 

“Oh, go bite me,” he muttered, twitching away from its touch, when what he really wanted to do was lean into its spread fingers. Its thumb traced a pattern of circles over his cheekbone, until he got a hold of himself and stuck it away with a backhand, looking up again to see a touch of fleeting amusement pass across its face.

 

“All in good time,” it grinned at him, and he wondered why the hell he’d said it in the first place, “now, you know where I keep the good brandy, I’m sure. Go and fetch us a bottle, will you?”

 

Ethan’s ‘good stuff’ had been old when Rupert’s great, great grandfather had been young. And of course it had been right in its assumption; he knew exactly where it was kept, he had turned the house over from top to bottom when he’d first got here to find what he could, and work out any escape routes that he may have needed.

 

He rose without a question or argument and headed down into the basement, grabbing the first bottle that he came across. It didn’t make a difference to him what he came out with. When he came back out, a slight tremor running through him from the cold, it was to find it in a crouch, hands held out towards the fire as though to warm them, in a pose that looked so human that it struck him. For the first time since it had gotten a hold of him he wondered exactly what the man who Ethan had once been had been like.

 

It was sobering, to think that when it had last felt the sun’s warmth on its face had been before the supposed death of Christ, if he had existed at all. These days Rupert wasn’t sure what to believe; sometimes it didn’t seem possible that if there was anything looking down, it would be able to watch his suffering without flinching, and other times it seemed that whatever he did played right into the hands of fate, a creature which was surely master of a sense of humour which was more cruel than most.

 

It had already fetched two glasses, and it stood, turning to face him as he entered the room, and taking the bottle off of him. With an expert flick it removed the cap and half filled both of the glasses then took the back of his right hand in its own. He wasn’t sure where the knife in its hand had come from, but before he could flinch it had drawn it across his palm, and was holding his hand steady, over its glass.

 

“Fuck,” he snarled at the burn of the knife as nerves round the cut throbbed, even as he watched with a sickened sense of fascination as his blood ran down his palm in a steady trickle. Stared as each dark drop broke the still surface of its drink spreading out to the sides in a tiny ripple, and fell towards the bottom of the glass, trailing tiny drifting rivulets of what appeared as an even darker brown against the amber liquid.

 

His hand was kept there until that thrice-damned rune bit again and white pain flashed across it, something that seemed to take a lot longer than it had before. Did that mean that it was beginning to fade, or heal as the case may have been? How much longer would it keep him safe from its bloodlust? He didn’t know, wasn’t sure that he wanted to know either.

 

It raised the glass, and took a small sip which it rolled around its mouth, like a connoisseur taking first sip from a glass of world-class-wine. It eyed him quietly through the dancing shadow, and then swallowed back a quarter of the contents of the glass in one go, and topped it back up with the brandy.

 

“Something to take the edge off things, for now; I haven’t fed since I left, after all. And if that’s anything to go by, then you haven’t been doing much by the way of eating, either. Care to tell me why?”

 

Rupert sat in silence, studying the way that the firelight made amber dance across the table, and flick over its face, highlighting its eyes in brief bursts, so that it looked like it was flashing to and from its human mask.

 

He took a sip from his own glass, and winced at the burn. It wouldn’t take him much of this stuff to get drunk, with the potency of it. He almost coughed at the sharpness.

 

“Not particularly.”

 

“Why?” again, that touch of dark amusement, “or is curiosity only reserved for those that bare humanity like a shield in their blood, too?”

 

It took another sip of its drink, when he could see that what it really wanted to do was finish the entire thing in one go then head back for seconds, and thirds, and more than likely fourths, too.

 

He took another sip of his own, to mirror it, “So, what kept you then?”

 

He saw the hardness come back into its expression as he spoke again, and he wondered exactly what he had said wrong.

 

“Never _you_ mind me boy. You just worry about finishing up that glass of yours.”

 

With that, and the way it was looking, he knew that the conversation, as odd as it had been in the first place, was over. All of a sudden a chill passed through him, in spite of the slowly building warmth of the place, and he quietly pushed the glass away from himself. Then he took another glance at it, and decided that it would be better for him if he did finish it off.

 

Grasping it between both hands, he raised it, and knocked back a good half, before he had to stop, gasping and shivering, then sitting back and closing his eyes as he leaned his head back against the back of the seat, the fire in his throat shooting straight up and through into his head. Even behind closed lids the ground still lurched alarmingly, and when it stopped swaying like he was somehow at sea he could feel fingers threading between his own, and the glass being lifted from his hand.

 

Distantly he heard the clink of the glass being set down, and then felt the distinct pressure of its hand on the inside of his left thigh.

 

“Who was he?”

 

“What?” Rupert’s fumbling mind tried to follow the jump from _drink up_ to where they were now, and gave up before it had even reached half-way.

 

“It’s faint, but it’s there; A trace of invitational magic on you. Tastes almost spicy,” it referred to the way that the trace power felt to its own sense of power, “and I’d say it’s probably got more to do with why you’ve stayed inside than anything else would.”

 

“Nothing; it was nothing, just someone that I passed a bit of the time of night with.”

 

At this moment in time a sentence of that length seemed ridiculously complicated, although it still didn’t discourage him from it, as each thing he said gave him that little bit longer for him to turn over the next bit of it in his mind.

Through his haze he felt fingertips pressing into his chest, nails scratching as it pressed back, and undid his pants, before smoothly pulling both them and his boxers down off his hips, and let them puddle around his ankles, somehow pressing a hand in between his thighs, when they were now trapped together.

 

Lowering its head it pressed its lips to his, and slowly worked its tongue into his mouth. The contrast of the metallic, slightly sweet flavour of blood provided a fascinating contrast against the bitter warmth of the powerful alcohol, and Rupert found himself surprised that he could taste one against the other, when he’d thought the flavour of the brew would have masked all else. Moaning into the kiss, he felt it growl in response as much as he heard it, as he pushed back with his own tongue.

 

Its hand moved, and it pushed down against the top of his pants with a foot, pushing them down properly. As soon as one ankle was free, it rested a knee on his chair between his legs, and pressed it up against his cock, giving him a tiny hint of pressure as it stilled his hips with its hand, and broke the kiss, leaning away from him. When it returned, it was with a fresh mouthful of the potent drink held between it lips, and as it leaned into him, it parted his lips with its tongue again, and trickled a part of the drink into his mouth. Rupert swallowed it back, shivering as he did so, and it gave him a little more.

 

The dark flavour of blood-iron should have been like waving a red flag at a bull, but he couldn’t muster the strength to worry about it. After all, he thought to himself hoping that it didn’t somehow catch it, a streak of lightning shooting through him amongst the dark mist, and blunt trails that he could feel his thoughts dragging through his mind, in a few more days they could both well be dead, so why the hell shouldn’t he convince himself to enjoy it just this once?

 

After all, it was unlikely that he would ever know the touch of another.

 

He moaned again, the sound slipping around its tongue, as it gave him a few more drops and pressed its knee against him harder, and between the friction, and the chill of its knee, and that cold tongue which was rubbing against his again, and the fire in his chest he was already hard.

 

This time when it drew back it dropped to its knees, and again Rupert’s mind tried to follow, to figure out exactly what the hell it was doing. Hands pressed his legs apart, at a point just above the knee, and stayed there, as it moved again, and he gasped as he felt the sting of fangs against the inside of his upper thigh, high enough that he squirmed as its hair tickled against his cock. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his leg, a tiny hint of pain with each beat of his heart as it drew more from him, letting his body do the work to feed it.

 

It kept its teeth planted in his flesh, head tilted slightly so that the blood could still flow, and as the bite of the rune hit him this time he threw back his head and yelled. This time, because it wasn’t being given the space that it needed to heal the fire didn’t fade, he started to shiver, as it kept drinking.

 

He could feel warmth coming into the lips that surrounded its teeth which were pressed heavily against his skin, and into the fingers that were dug hard against his legs, and while he could still feel his heart racing, it seemed to be doing so with a little less kick than before.

 

Had it really been telling him the truth when it said that it wasn’t a needless killer, or had it just been telling him what he wanted to hear? It couldn’t kill him without ending its own existence, but he felt his heart grow heavy, felt a huge lump rolling into his stomach as another possibility occurred to him. If it was planning on turning him, then a part of him would still keep going. It couldn’t kill him, but it _could_ do something that was so much worse.

 

His head seemed to be swimming even more, his thoughts coming with less conviction, when it finally set his mind at ease, and drew back. The bite of the rune was so much worse now, after being denied, and he yelped as it seared over the bite.

 

It lifted its head and rested its gaze on his, lips drawn apart so that he could see the damp, dark glint of blood on its teeth, and that overwhelming bloodlust was fading from its yellowed eyes, to be replaced by a lust of an entirely different variety. He felt boneless as it rose and lifted him with no more difficulty then it had shown with the body before it had left, and the world spun as it drew him out of the chair and laid him back out on the polished wooden floor before the fire.

 

 _So, the floor this time_ , he thought to himself, almost amused, _something different yet again_. He watched as it straightened; found he was staring at the way that the firelight turned the golden edging of buttons yellow, and gave the amber glint in it eyes and ethereal quality. As skin was revealed, its colour darked by his blood, the firelight gave it an almost golden sheen that matched its gaze. Lifting his gaze without raising his head, he drew his eyes over it, studying it to see what he had missed before.

 

Without his usual anger and fear, and anticipation of pain, and swimming in the warm haze of alcohol, this time he could be calm about it. As he stared, he became aware of something else; its touch of magic, as deft as it was, humming through him, sending his mind reeling even further, came to an awareness that it had been working on him all along, that it was probably in fact the power more than the liquor that was keeping him treading through the haze that had wrapped around him.

 

As the puzzle pieces slipped into place he tried for his rage, tried to summon up a feeling of indignity and betrayal, but found that even simple frustration was beyond him.

 

The floor was almost painfully hard, but nor could he summon up enough of himself to care about that, either.

 

“I trust that I’m not going to have to tie you down, this time?” Its voice came to him just as distantly as everything else had, and he couldn’t find his own voice in order to reply.

 

It dropped its pants and trousers, and kicked them to the side so that they went skittering across the floor and half-wrapped around the leg of the couch. Rupert’s gaze was drawn down, over a pair of scars just below its navel, a small lingering trace of long years of humanity, and flicked over its cock, already hard and standing amongst a dark tangle of hair. It was completely, utterly still, without even a mimic of humanity, and Rupert felt something stir inside of him that he wasn’t sure he could put to its power, but certainly didn’t want to attribute to himself.

 

And then it was on the ground, kneeling in from of him without seeming to move, “Go on,” it muttered with a raise of its eyebrow, and a touch of its bloodied grin, and he rolled over, and pushing himself up onto limbs that he wasn’t sure would have been able to take his weight, drew in a deep breath as he felt its warmth just above him.

 

A hand trailed up his side, fingers pressing into the spaces in between his ribs, and then lifted clear and traced up over the bottom of his jawbone until it brushed over the pressure-point just out from his ear, and dug in, until he gasped, where it held the pressure, distracting until he felt teeth being set against the skin over the hollow between his neck and shoulder; not high enough to risk nicking anything important, but still…

 

He couldn’t keep himself quiet, as the teeth were pressed through skin and deep into the muscle under it, and again it held its head in place, and this time as the fire of the rune bit, with an easy roll of its hips it pushed the tip of its cock into him. He was breathing hard, shaking, tears burning at the corners of his eyes, although he was desperate not to let them fall.

 

This time it didn’t drink as deeply, although it still hurt like anything when it drew back, and from out of nowhere the irony of the situation hit him. He had told it to bite him after all, and it seemed to have taken the words to heart.

 

Breathing deeply, he tried to focus on anything other than the burning intrusion of it pressing into him, working its way deeper centimetre by slow centimetre, the warmth of it something that he wasn’t sure he would ever get used to. And it seemed to be happy enough to oblige him in that matter, as fingernails dug into his skin and etched tracks of white which would quickly redden down his chest, and a thumb traced circles around his nipple when it drew level, before it brought thumb and forefinger together, delivering a stinging pinch, and using the shudder of his body to take it in deeper.

 

Again, he felt its power washing through him, and this time he reached out with his own and caught onto the edge of the rush, letting it take him away from himself. And then it stopped pushing, stoped forcing him, and came to a rest, his own sweat running down him, dripping from his forehead, and he could feel it trailing down his arms, cool against the warmth of the room, and over his back.

 

It was like the world had gone silent, the calm before the storm and he could see the trees swaying in the distance even though he couldn’t feel or hear the wind, and all of the tiny details were being picked out like he’d been given _its_ senses with which to see the world.

 

The fire sparked, although he didn’t hear the pop, and the spark which shot through the air seemed huge, and almost blindingly bright. He felt like if he tried, he would be able to count the individual bumps in the floorboards that were beneath his palms and knees, tell exactly how many hairs from its chest were currently clinging to his back, held there by the damp slickness of his own sweat.

 

And then he felt the power drawn back, and he crumpled to the ground, and it rode him down, and as soon as he was flat on his chest it stretched out fully over him, and began to move its hips again. He could feel every thrust changing some small part of his world, and it was no longer pain, but a rush of something that was scarily like pleasure, as it hit that same spot in with each movement, and his cock, held almost painfully against the ground by his own chest was fully hard, and leaking precome, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he would be able to hold out.

 

This was nothing at all like those times it had taken him before. He didn’t care that what he was feeling could probably be blamed on the power that was thrumming through him, constantly kept in motion by it. He didn’t care about the world, or anything else in out outside of this, for the moment. Nothing else mattered.

 

It thrust hard again, and this time when it drew back he rose a little way with it, taking some of the pressure off his cock, and when it came forward again, striking against that spot in him again he came with a breathless cry, and dropped back down again totally. Its movement in him was quickly becoming too much in the wake of his orgasm, but there was nothing for him here to cling to.

 

And then its hand pressed into his, which was questing back, and with a few more rolls of its hips it was coming too, shooting cold into him, and then slowly pulling out, a movement that made him shiver.

 

It picked him up in its arms, and held him against a chest which was still warm thanks to the combination of the fire, and his own blood in it veins, carried him up the stairs with no more awkwardness than if it were carrying a child. The power that it had been stirring in him was threatening to leave, but he clung to the feeling of it, that one which had been keeping him distant from himself.

 

He didn’t know how things would look when he woke, but he knew that he didn’t want to deal with them until then, if nothing else. It drew back the blanket with one hand, and laid him down on the mattress, running currently warm fingers over his cheek and throat.

 

“Get some sleep. Even with the rune, you’ll still need time to recover.”

 

Through the haze of impending sleep he could hear it moving around the room, could hear the rustle of fabric as it dressed itself again in fresh clothing.

 

“Where were you going?” He mumbled, half to the pillow, although it still obviously heard it clearly enough.

 

“I got enough from you to tide me over for a while, but I still need to feed properly.”

 

Hunting; it was going hunting. Although whether a thing that claimed not to kill could still be said to hunt he wasn’t entirely sure.

 

The words were out before he could think about it, or stop himself from saying them. He could almost see the patterns that they traced through the air and to its ears.

 

“Be careful.”

 

It looked at him with an expression that he wasn’t sure he wanted to decipher, and paused at the door. For a few moments it looked like it was about to say something in reply, then it simply nodded, and headed down the stairs, and Rupert was left alone with nothing but his own fogged thoughts, and sleep weighting heavily on every muscle.

 


	10. Chapter 9 – Black And White (And Shades of the Storm)

** Chapter 9 – Black And White (And Shades of the Storm) **

“On a mountain he sits, not of gold but of shit  
Through the blood he can look, see the life that he took”  
\- 30 Seconds to Mars – From Yesterday

 

It was early; around half past two, as far as humans judged time in this little corner of the world. He could remember a time when the only thing that counted was what side of darkness you were on, and how long it would take until dawns light came to chase away the night-times stoic guard.

 

The waxy white light of the half moon that was almost masked by a thick layer of cloud wasn’t strong enough to compete with the harsh yellow pools of streetlight, which he wove around rather than cutting through, like they were tiny puddles of sunlight. A fine mist of a rain was falling; just enough to make everything damp after ten minutes out in it, and the smell of ozone told him that a summer storm was slowly chasing up behind the drizzle.

 

The boy’s blood sung in him, in a way that he hadn’t felt in a long time, and he wondered if the boy knew just how fine a balancing act it was that he walked at times around him. The blood of those that were innately powerful was a heady brew, and for all that he knew almost instinctively that the boy’s life was off limits, there were still times when he looked at the young one and had trouble seeing nothing more than a walking meal.

 

These were the times when the predator’s senses defined everything that he saw in the world, when his every fibre of being was screaming at him to say hell with the world and take the kill.

 

He felt the ripple of the shift pass through him, hand in hand with a wave of primal power that primed every muscle and balanced him on that perfect edge. He had told the boy that he hadn’t taken an innocent human life by design for a long time, and he hadn’t been lying. But he didn’t count those nights when it could hear nothing save the pulse of blood in every door, and through every creature that scrabbled through the dark belly of the sewers below as something that happened by design.

 

Gods, but the boy’s blood was intoxicating. Opening that sense of power which had never left him, opening it out to the night he studied the scents in the air, the flow and ebb of natural power as the pre-natural energy swum through the still morning. Several blocks over a dog that had been roaring its displeasure to the darkness fell silent momentarily, and then Ethan’s ears picked up the sound as it began to whimper, sensing a far more deadly predator on the prowl.

 

Down into the bottom of an alleyway fifteen minutes walk from what he called home here, where the light didn’t quite penetrate, he stopped tracking a scent through the air, as he came across what he had been after.

 

Amidst the broken bottles, and heavy scent of sweat and urine, and the sickening-sweet scent of something small that was beginning to rot, and on top of cigarette butts and dirt and ashes, he came across that one scent that he had picked out of a jumble of others.

 

It was an older man, thin grey hair and sagging skin, a deep scar on one cheek and a bloodied cut visible through a torn shirt shoulder, and the scent of alcohol leaking from his pores. But that scent wasn’t enough to mask the throb of power from him.

 

Ethan knew his type; there were some people in the world that couldn’t deal with the sharp relief that having a grasp of power threw the world into, and tried to haze it with artificial methods. These ones, to his mind, didn’t deserve a place in the world if they weren’t actually trying to live in it.

 

Raising a hand Ethan dug a nail into his arm and held it there, until a single drop of blood had run out onto it. He lifted the hand to its mouth, and sniffed at the small drip, black in the darkness, before testing it, rolling it on his tongue as the man stirred. All that it took to send him back to sleep was a tiny brush of power, and Ethan smiled to his shadow.

 

The blood was clean aside from the taint of liquor which tasted like it had been a part of his system for years. And while this man didn’t hold anywhere near as much power as Rupert did (although that wasn’t surprising, since Rupert’s power was intrinsically a part of his, anyway) he would more than suffice to feed the hunger that was still a screaming part of him, even in spite of earlier.

 

Dropping to his knees, he took the man by his shoulders and drew him back towards his body, until his back was pressed into his chest and his head was lolling back over his shoulder, revealing a pale, wrinkled throat which glistened at it dully in the light rain.

 

Raising both hands he drew the skin taunt and pressed his lips to the flesh, ignoring the flavour of old dirt and fresh moisture, and sunk its teeth in, taking care to do no more than clip the jugular, so that the body could still do the work to feed him. It was only the young and stupid that bit deeply and caused death within seconds, and Ethan was neither. Those that knew how it went let a person’s own heart feed them, rather than suck it all out for themselves. It was still a quick enough death, but it was a lot easier.

 

Ethan nursed, until the heart ceased to beat some minutes later, and only then did he tighten his grasp on the body, and draw deeply, taking those last few mouthfuls. Closing his eyes as the fresh power, and the fresh strength flooded into his system he passed a hand over the wound that he had left, closing it.

 

Let some human find the body and the puzzle that it would present, a puzzle that no-one save perhaps a Watcher or someone that gave their life over to hunting his kind would be able to solve.

 

Before he stood he slipped the heavy ring off the corpse’s finger and pocketed it, only pausing to brush at some of the grime on his knees and dropped the corpse a little further into the alleyway.

 

Then with one last glance up at a moon that was now all but obscured, he headed for home as the first distant rumble of thunder became audible to it.

_He didn’t know how to approach the matter. He had been studying the files since he’d been given them, and even if he didn’t know anything else, he knew that much. It felt like he’d been set the metaphorical impossible task._

_And two lives weighed heavily on his shoulders; not just that of his own son, but that of an as-yet unborn Potential, as well._

_He supposed that the first thing should be to get a clearer insight from the person that his son had actually opened up to; and see if that gave him a clearer picture of the creature that was keeping his son, but that wasn’t something that he could get himself excited about, either._

_That the Council were being as liberal in the matter as they were, was concerning to say the least, too; they usually only ever saw the world in shades of black and white, so something like this was truly unprecedented territory. There could only be something major in the works, for them to see reason, especially on such a huge scale._

_Shifting the file to one side for now, he unrolled the paper and froze, looking at the front page. The headline story was to do with a case that had medical examiners baffled. It was the case of the body that had been brought on with no wounds at all, and yet no blood left in the system, and they were asking for anyone that had seen any suspicious activity around the area that it was discovered to come forward._

_No blood screamed a vampire; and no wound told of an intelligent one, one that could do things that most of its type couldn’t._

_And that meant that there was only one likely possibility, didn’t there? And that lead to the fact which said that the sooner he did something other than sit around reading, the better off they would all be._

It felt ridiculously early; which in reality meant that it was probably some time in the early afternoon. The blackened windows certainly weren’t going to give him anything other than perhaps his own reflection, and another part of the shielding woven into the place meant that as the sun rose any sounds that didn’t directly concern the place; like knocking, or someone attempting to shoot a bullet through the door, were inaudible.

 

He still felt a little weak but his head was no longer swimming and his thoughts were his own again, which wasn’t actually an entirely good thing. When he shifted, and dropped onto his side that deep ache, like that of an overused muscle flared into life again. Closing his eyes again, he focused on nothing more complex than the sound of his own breathing and dropped his head back down onto the pillow and did his best to ignore the presence of Ethan, a still-warm, unmoving weight next to him.

 

How many people had it fed from, to still be warm hours later? Although it was no longer carrying the warmth of a human, it was still far warmer than it should have been.

 

And as thoughts, memories of last night swum through him, he tried to deal with them logically without giving in to the desire to bolt from the bed and into the bathroom to be sick. What he’d done last night, the ease with which he’d given into _it;_ well, in his mind there was no excuse for it. Even the fact that it had influenced him, doped him up with tastes of its power still didn’t give him an adequate reason to accept it and move on.

 

He felt sickened with himself, which was the only accurate way to describe it. He didn’t care if it had seemed like enough reason at the time, because if he carried on believing that way of thinking, then it seemed to render all of the effort that he’d put into fighting against it, and struggling against _himself_ useless.

 

He hated it; he could keep telling himself that. He hated what it did to him, too, that was easy enough to convince himself of. Where that theory fell down, was in the fact that after that first time his body seemed to welcome things a little more with each subsequent round, and in the way that his own power opened up to allow it what was more or less free reign.

 

Oh, he could have thrown it off, he was sure. But such a thing seemed pointless, when it wasn’t going to deter it, when he knew that it wouldn’t stop until it had what it wanted out of him.

 

But still, his thoughts kept returning to the fact that last night had gone beyond any of that. Last night, in spite of everything that he had told himself, there had been more than a small part of him that had enjoyed it.

 

Quietly he drew himself out from under the blanket and carefully levered himself over its still body, first one arm and then the other leg, and without a single motion of warning it reached up, tangled a hand in his hair, and drew him down into a hungry, open-mouthed kiss, lips and tongue lukewarm against his own. It growled softly, and he felt the action as much as he heard it, as its hand tightened in his hair, just to the point of painful.

 

As it released him, it finally opened its eyes, that old human brown, and tucked its hands behind its head.

 

“Going somewhere?”

 

“Just for a walk; I can’t stay still any longer.”

 

“Make sure that you’re back by dusk.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Hmm. And here I was thinking that I was finally getting the point that you don’t question me, across to you. Just make sure that you’re back by dusk, boy, and then you’ll find out why.”

 

He didn’t bother to dignify that with a reply. Instead he cut through into the bathroom, and had a quick wash before he dressed himself, and headed out of the house. If his death wasn’t going to hurry up and come to him, then he was going to meet it.

 

Keeping his manner subdued, he let his feet guide him into town, and then away from the centre of it where he found himself scanning bushes and trees and driveways and parked cars, waiting for the moment when an impenetrable wall would form behind him, cutting him off from it, to make the kill quick and easy.

 

At least once it was done after all, then he wouldn’t have worry about trying to keep his own feelings as far as _it_ was concerned in check. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about this thing that he was telling himself over and over again wasn’t guilt at giving up both it and himself, to the only people that actually stood a chance at killing it.

 

The sun made his skin sting, but it was a far cry from the agony it that had sent through him as the start of all this. And he was reasonably sure that the fact that it was making his eyes sore had more to do with the fact that it dad been a while since he had last been out in its full glare.

 

Still, he made it back to Tristan’s, without anything alerting him, and only then did he pause outside the door with the thought that the man might not actually be home. He could even be out at work, for all Rupert knew.

 

After all, it hadn’t exactly been the week that they had agreed on, and he wasn’t likely to hang around waiting out the day for him when he was more than likely expecting an approach by night.

 

He held his breath, and raised his hand to knock. Wards that he hadn’t noticed last time brushed over his skin, a strange, almost uncomfortable tingle. He wondered if the reason that he hadn’t noticed them was because they were freshly woven as a courtesy to him, or simply because he’d had other things on his mind.

 

Minutes dragged past, and he was about to turn and leave when he heard the sound of a deadbolt being drawn back, and the door was opened.

 

“Rupert.”

 

He sounded surprised, but not unwelcoming, to Rupert’s practised ear.

 

“Sorry,” he offered him a one-shouldered shrug, “I know I’m early, but…”

 

“No, no, it’s not a problem, not a problem at all. I was just catching a little extra rest; I’ll be working late tonight, so…” he trailed off, and stepped to the side, opened his mouth Rupert suspected to repeat the other night’s invitation and then closed it again as Rupert stepped through the doorway with no prompting.

 

He felt a little amusement welling up, at the look on his face, and couldn’t help the touch of chuckle that threatened as he spoke, “I suspect that uninviting me would probably work, but you obviously haven’t, so the invitation holds.”

 

“Um, well, yes, it… it didn’t actually cross my mind. I… I’ve never extended an invitation to anything… anyone… that needed one, so I… I wasn’t sure if it would stand or what the story was.”

 

“Good motto,” Rupert cut down the hallway and threw himself down into the chair that he had taken over last time, “after all, not all of the things that you have to ask to enter are as nice as I am.”

 

He came out with a bottle of brandy, and Rupert felt a wave of sickness roll up inside of him as he stared at it. He supposed he must have paled, or something like it too, because Tristan took it back away and came out with a couple of beers, which was an option that Rupert could handle.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing that matters,” he replied shortly, and twisted the top off the beer, emptying half the bottle in one slug.

 

“I’ve just got a phone-call to make. I’ll be back in shortly.”

 

“Sure, that’s fine.”

 

He clamped down on his natural instinct, which was to bolt for the door, did everything in his power not to overhear anything that was said, and focused on the sound of the bubbles breaking against the glass sides of the bottle that he was holding. And when Tristan came back it, the rest of a twelve-pack in hand, and sat at the chair next to his, much like last time again, he found himself trying to keep the conversation about the mundane.

 

He didn’t really want to end his life on a comment of _so what do you think of the weather lately_ but he supposed that there were worse possibilities. He didn’t even jump when a knock sounded at the door. But the last person the he expected to be let in was his father.

 

Bottle half-way to his mouth, all of a sudden feeling like a child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he froze. It was… disconcerting, to say the least, to feel young again, after everything that he’d been through, but that didn’t mean that the feeling was a bad one.

 

He stared at the man as he came in, and noticed the tiredness that almost seemed to have settled into his bones.

 

“I did what you wanted me to do with it, Rupert. I handed it over to the Council,” Tristan sat back down, quarter empty bottle of beer in one hand, and looked quietly between father and son.

 

Rupert raised his bottle, tipping it in his father’s direction, a silent acknowledgement, hoping almost desperately that he didn’t notice the tremble in his hand, “So, what? Come to bid me goodbye, then, or something of the sort? Or perhaps to tell me to run, even when we both know where that got me last time?”

 

  
“No. Nothing of the sort, actually,” he took the bottle that Tristan offered him as well, flashing him a glance of gratitude, “he gave it to the Council, and they gave it back to me.”

 

“What?” he wasn’t sure whether he’d heard what he just though he’d heard, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to make head or tail of the tangled, jumbled web of emotions that all seemed to be fighting with one another for precedence. So, the Council weren’t going to send a crack-team after him; he didn’t know if what was there was relief or despair.

 

His last hope for an out had been that the Council would see fit to end this situation, in any way that they could, no matter the consequences. But if they had handed it back to his father… well then, there was no way that they were sadistic enough to make his own blood end his life. Ethan might have been the type to find such a thing entertaining, but the Council, white hats that they were, just weren’t programmed like that.

 

No reply was forthcoming. And Tristan was standing, and heading towards the door, pausing beside it to look back, “I’ll leave the two of you to talk. Just make sure that you lock up afterwards.”

 

As the door closed and an uncomfortable silence took over, he tried again, “So, what’s going to happen now, then?”

 

He found that he couldn’t meet his gaze, didn’t want to see whatever was hiding in there.

 

“I’m sorry, Rupert. I’m sorry that I… that there’s nothing I can do to get you out of this. I wish that there was, but…”

 

“Shut up,” the words exploded from him before he could stop them.

 

He was shaking, he didn’t want to hear this, he wished that he was anywhere but here, listening to excuses, painful, fumbled excuses. He could feel a rage boiling in his chest, something at least that was more useful than the pathetic lethargy of the last four days, could feel it bubbling up, and he was on his feet before he knew it, hands clenched into fists, and he could feel the white heat of his power, fuelled and strengthened by his anger as it was, and it was whispering to him, its voice husky and seductive, and begging him to use it.

 

His acquiescence was instant. He threw his hands out, and lashed out at everything, releasing it as a huge, rolling wave. Everything, bookcases, pictures, chairs, everything, were slammed back against the wall by a rippling wave of green energy, and he heard a noise that didn’t stop until he realises that it was his own voice, screaming, one long, loud note that was all of the pain and confusion, and rage, and self-disgust, and devastation that he’d know over the last space of time.

 

Gods but had it truly only been a year ago that he’d left home, snuck out into the waiting darkness with dreams, foolish, childish dreams in his head, and the stars dancing overhead in a way that he seemed to be a personal welcome to him?

 

Sometimes it felt like it had been over a decade, with everything that had happened in between.

 

Then he was on his knees, a wash of exhaustion hitting him as suddenly as the rage had, and he was sobbing, a broken, keening wail of a sound, each sob rocking him forward and shaking him to his core, and he wasn’t sure that he would ever be able to stop, now that he had started.

 

Right now he felt like nothing more than a frightened child, and at that moment he would have given anything for the ability to crawl back in time, to that night before all of this has started, and freeze things as they had been.

 

It had only been his own foolishness that had made him speak; after all, his own pride that had driven him out. It was his own fault, to his eyes, no matter which way he looked at it, and he had been desperate for an outlet for the last five months ever since that night that _it_ had lost had lost its patience with him, and taken him.

 

And arms were wrapping around him, and he could hear a heartbeat from the chest that was next to his head, and he felt more alone than ever, even as he wanted to do nothing more than stay there, rocking, comforted.

 

Slowly, but surly though, he got control of his breathing, got control of himself, and before he could say a word his father released him, and he slowly pushed to his feet, and shook himself. Angrily, he swiped at his eyes, and as habit, glanced towards the clock. It was after four, the second hand creeping around its face almost menacingly, eating into what was left of his daylight.

 

His father was standing in the centre of the room, looking unsure of himself, as though he were trying to work something out. And when he spoke again, it was in a soft voice.

 

“They say that the portents haven’t changed,” he reached forward and took one of his son’s hands in his own, looking as the contrast of his weathered skin against the boys, “that in spite of all of this, you’re still tied to a future Potential.”

 

“Me? Tied to a Potential? Who the hell are they trying to fool?” Rupert could feel something different this time that was threatening to take over, and it was hysteria. As surely as he could, he clamped down on it. One break-down was acceptable, but two was pushing it, he felt. And it would certainly be pushing at the outer edges of his day, as _it_ had told him to be back by dusk.

 

“No-one; they can’t remove you without removing her. And while there are some that feel it would be a reasonable option, there are a few others who think that your… unique… position might be an advantage. And removing her isn’t an option yet, either.”

 

“So, what you’re basically saying is that they don’t have a choice, since she hasn’t been born yet. That’s rich; that’s real rich. And once she’s born and they change their mind? They gonna make you countersign the papers, too?”

 

“By the time that she is, with Rayne’s influence, you’ll probably be too strong for them to take down. And if… if this works, then it’s not something that you’ll have to worry about, anyway.”

 

“All this is well and good,” Rupert reached down, and picked up a loose bottle of beer from where it had fallen, and cracked it open, for want of something to do, holding it away from himself and wincing as it bubbled out over the top, and ran down his hand, dripping off onto the hearth in front of the fireplace, which he’d had the sense to hold it over, “but how are you planning on making _it_ see sense? What the fuck do you honestly think could make a Vampire want to help stand guardian over a Slayer?”

 

He watched as his father bit back a remark about his language, and then carried on, “Surly even those idiots could see that a human apocalypse must be exactly what the fucking vampire ordered? Why the hell would they think that it would bother to help stop demons from making the earth back into home sweet home?”

 

“It… they… they think that it’s worth a chance. I’m not entirely sure what’s on the cards, but they obviously think that it’ll be something big enough to concern a hybrid. And as for convincing it… you know it better than anyone, these days. I’ve got a few facts, but you… if anyone has a chance…”

 

This last part was said with his gaze focused on the slowly vanishing bubbles of beer, a shock of white on the orange hearth. And Rupert found himself laughing, a little closer to that hysteria that he though he’d successfully shoved away.

 

“Yeah, sure; I’ll tell it that I set out to betray it, bring about the death of it and myself, and that the Council are demanding that we both step into line, and up to the plate. Never know, maybe I’ll get lucky, and it’ll do the job for me, kill me and itself by default. Or maybe… maybe it’ll decide to play along, and then turn the Potential the minute that their backs are turned, and they won’t have to worry about that, either. Or maybe pigs will fly, and it’ll actually think that it’s a good idea, and protect her.”

 

Throwing back his head, he finished off what beer was left in the bottle after its explosive opening, and grabbed up a couple more that were loose by his feet, one more from a couple of paces behind him, and tucked them into the pockets of his jacket, a hint of a cruel smile touching the corner of his mouth as he heard the glass clink against the handle of his knife.

 

He headed for the door, stopping to grab one more bottle; tucking it into the deep pocket on his left, in beside the last one that he’d picked up.

 

“Rupert, where…” his father’s voice chased him across the room, and he cut him off as he turned the doorhandle and opened it to walk out.

 

“I suppose you could say that I’m going home. Don’t seem to have much choice about calling it that, do I?”

 

This last was delivered on a snap, as he swung the door closed with a lot more force than was necessary, and he paused outside, leaning back against the solid wood in much the same way that he had leaned against the barrier four days earlier. For a few moments he breathed deeply, head tilted up to catch the rays of a slowly sinking sun, and then he set himself and started the walk back.

 

He couldn’t even gather himself enough to think of anything that might have been useful, as he walked, not taking any notice of the way that people went out of their way to avoid crossing paths with the sullen, dark-looking teenager.

 

When he reached the house he hesitated before entering. Technically he was early, he didn’t have to go back in, didn’t have to throw himself back into its presence quite yet. But even though he still told himself that he hated it, at least it made sense in a world that was completely fucked up.

 

It was brutal, hard, and came from an age where physical punishment was a part of life, and people had still had to be strong to survive. At least its anger and moods were black and white, and avoidable, for the most part.

 

He opened the door, and slipped into the cool, dark place, taking note of the flicker of candlelight that looked like it was coming from the sitting room.

 

It was sitting in a chair, staring at the way that flecks of dust danced in and out of the pools of light thrown out by the candles that it had placed on the mantelpiece, casting tiny pools of yellow light that would have made the place seem warm, if not for the way that they fell short, and left it sitting with its face in shadow.

 

“Good afternoon. Have a nice walk?”

 

It sounded pleasant, almost civil; and that, in and of itself was enough to set alarm bells ringing for him. It leaned forward, and the candlelight danced in its eyes, making it look like it was shifting in small flicks.

 

He stood, frozen, rooted to the spot as it smiled, nothing like Rupert’s tiny flick of anger-born cruelty, but the expression of something that hadn’t known humanity for a long time, for long enough to make the expression seem like both a threat and a promise.

 

It cleared its throat, and he became aware that it was waiting for a reply.

 

“Not too bad, thanks,” he kept the tremble that he could feel out of his voice.

 

“Correct me if I’m mistaken, but I think that you and I have something to discuss.”

 


	11. Chapter 10 – Stories (And Called Out)

** Chapter 10 – Stories (And Called Out) **

“Who do you need, who do you love?  
When you come undone”  
\- Duran Duran – Come Undone

 

_Two days, and everything had gone smoothly. Two days, and a task that couldn’t be avoided had be fulfilled. It would be… interesting, to say the least, when he got back and told the boy what he knew, what he had picked up from this; interesting to gauge his reaction, and certainly amusing to see the outcome._

_He had known, after all, from the moment that the boy had been taken into his home that destiny was a cloth that couldn’t be re-woven. He had no idea if the boy knew that small piece of information or not, though; although he doubted it._

_It was early evening,; he had woken in time to watch the sun set from the shadows that were thrown by the crypt that he had spent the last night in, and it had sunk into a cool, still evening._

_The first thing that alerted him was the sound of a breaking twig, somewhere behind him. Hearing that, he paused, and cocked his head to one side, listening to the pulse of the darkness, as it swept around him. A cricket over in the field to his right, the sound of a bat beating its wings as it fought the still sky for height, the almost completely silent noise of an owl’s wings parting the air like a fine blade. And people, each one marked by a heartbeat that was slightly out of pace with the one that was next to it._

_Loud to his ears, heartbeats, that were faster than they should be, even in this chill; seven of them._

_He smiled, careful to keep his amusement to himself. A party of seven, when it was child’s play, as far as he was concerned, to summon something that could take out five or six times that number, with ease? And it would be even easier to control something like that, confused by the dimensional displacement as it would be._

_The only thing that stayed him was curiosity. How had they known about him, why had they come after him? If they were people that had recognized him thanks to some ancestor’s story, than they’d have had more sense than to come after him, he was sure. Or at least more sense than to come after him with such a small number._

_He could feel a trace of magic about them, but nothing that would warrant the sort of confidence that they were exuding. Unless they were used to taking on things that were more powerful than they were. Used to fighting them, and winning._

_And there were few people in the world who were that arrogant without cause. Which kept only one real option open, didn’t it?_

_He stopped, turned to face the shadows homing in on the closest heartbeat to him._

_And he let it happen, let that old, familiar wash of primeval power flush through him, as his face morphed and his teeth extended. He could see the men around him now, three in front and four behind, like they were outlined in neon paint. The could see the heat of their blood as it rushed through their veins, made even hotter by a fear that increased as he had shifted._

_“May as well come out, boys; I know you’re there.”_

_That the boy would actually throw himself onto the mercy of the Council’s dogs… he wasn’t sure of whether to be impressed at the thought behind it, amused because he must have actually though that it would work, or pissed off because it was going behind his back._

_They rushed him as one, and it was barely a moment’s works to toss them all back and to the ground with a single wave of magic that none of them had a hope of countering. Holding the other six down, he relaxed his hold on the one that seemed to be the leader and watched as he scrabbled to his feet, and glanced around for the support of his men, before he realised that he was alone, and paled drastically. At that, Ethan laughed and advanced on him, and obviously only thinking about his own life now, he turned to run._

_Pointing at him he snarled a word in a language that no-one who was alive these days would have recognized, and with a subtle gesture lifted him into the air and flung him against a tree that was in a field several meters away. Even at this distance he heard the sound of the contact, and the gasp of pain that the man gave._

_“Such a small party to come after me,” He jumped the fence in one easy movement, and stalked closer, letting the fluid grace of the predator that he was become apparent, “tell me, did the boy tell you exactly who I was? Or did he send you to me as nothing more than an easy snack?”_

_The man stayed silent, and Ethan grabbed him by the shoulder, squeezing until he heard the crack of the joint dislocating, and the man passed out in his hands. Releasing his hold he let him fall to the ground, and settled to wait until he was awake, something that took far longer than he had anticipated._

_After all, in the old days a Council operative was taught to handle pain. Who was he, to know that times had changed quite that much? He took the unconscious body with him, back to the crypt that he’d bedded down in yesterday, and let the others up to run._

_He made sure that he was the first thing that the man saw when he awoke, whimpering with pain and holding his now useless left arm with his right hand._

_“I can assure you, that if you’re not happy to talk yet, then I’ve only just begun,” he let the shift take him again, and grinned at him as he advanced, lip drawn back from fang and allowed that to carry the threat in and of itself._

_“I don’t have the least resistance to the idea of draining you dry, and then reanimating your corpse for the answers that I want to hear. Either way I’m going to get them out of you. The only thing that changes is whether you give them to me willingly or not.”_

_He tired to move, bit back a gasp as his arm twisted uselessly in his socket, and drew back his lips into a snarl that was actually reasonably impressive for a human, “A thing like you doesn’t have the power to do something like that.”_

_Ethan snarled back, a sight that had him trying to jerk away again, “Would you care to stake your life on that bet? You wouldn’t hear any complaints from me,” then he grabbed the useless arm with both hands, and twisted it until a broken, sobbing howl split the night._

_This time when he regained consciousness Ethan let him peer around, staring into the shadows for a good few minutes, letting natural fear do its own work, before he stepped back out into the open._

_“Hmm. You know Watchers used to be made of sterner stuff than you are, once upon a time. They used to have real iron in their blood. Now, are you going to talk to me, or am I going to have to knock you out again? Although, taking into consideration the fact that the last couple of times have told me a lot about your level of tolerance it may take just a little while longer this time…”_

_The man paled even further if such a thing was possible without blood-loss, and Ethan dropped into a crouch beside where he lay, reaching out a slow hand towards him. When the man’s hand jumped up and caught his arm before he could make contact, he knew that he had him._

_“Wait. I’ll… I’ll… I’ll talk.”_

_“Good. Now how many more of yours are waiting for me?”_

_“None, no one; I… the men that were with me were the only ones that I could convince, the… the ones that weren’t too afraid of you… they though that it was risking too much… too much to try to take you out. The boy; they say that to risk the boy’s death while a Potential is still destined is to risk inviting disaster.”_

_“And you don’t believe your masters?”_

_The man fell silent again, and Ethan stared, counting the beads of sweat that trailed down his forehead. He had just lifted his hand again, when the man started to talk again._

_“I and those that were with me… we… we believed that any price was worth keeping a thing like you in the shadows.”_

_“There are fools like you in every era. But rarely are they so stupid,” placing a razor-sharp, twisted, claw-like nail on his cheek he drew it up until in was positioned at the corner of his eye. Tilting it down, he dug it towards the bone to the point that it carried the threat home, before angling it back up again, “So, who amongst your rats did the boy throw himself to?”_

_“I… I… I don’t know who, I swear.”_

_“You’re lucky that I believe you. And you’re lucky that I’m feeling generous. I’m going to let you crawl back to your masters, and carry the message that at any further threat towards the boy or myself, I will bring the entire Council down around their ears, and scatter their knowledge as dust to the four winds,” he waited a few moments for a reply that wasn’t forthcoming, “Aren’t you going to thank me? Although I suppose it would be easy enough to drain you dry, and spell out the message with your viscera on this crypt floor.”_

_Again, he allowed a few minutes to carry the threat home._

_“Thank-you,” he spoke as though forcing himself to say the words, and made to scrabble up, trying not to touch his dangling arm to the floor, which Ethan supposed that he actually was._

_Ethan let him regain his feet, before he moved again, and hit him hard in the back, before locking the nerve that he’d struck. The man tried to stand again, and found that he couldn’t as his face contorted with agony. And Ethan grasped the dislocated arm with one hand, and his shoulder with the other. It would be an easy enough task for someone with magic to fix, but he didn’t feel sufficient traces on this person to do anything about it._

_“I did say you’d crawl. And who am I, to break a promise? Especially once you’ve thanked me for it.”_

_With that, he twisted the joint back into its socket, and frowned when he fainted again from the action._

It stared at the boy, quietly gauging his reaction and wondering exactly how he was going to respond. Watched, as one emotion chased another across his face, and stared in mild surprise as he eventually settled on aggravation.

 

“You think that I betrayed you?”

 

“No. I know that you did, boy.”

 

Rupert’s expression changed again, developed a hint of challenge in it, “Did you have any proof, other than the word of someone who was under duress?”

 

“I think you’re mistaking me for something else.”

 

“What?” the boy drew back a couple of steps, and flicked his gaze towards the door, and with a gesture Ethan picked him up, and held him back against the wall, rings of power encircling his wrists and ankles. Rising, it stalked closer, going into the half-shift that it had mastered just shy of a thousand years ago. It leant a supple grace to its movement, a predatory sway as it approached.

 

“I think you’re mistaking me for something that still operates on human rules, boy. What is it that your type is so fond of saying these days? Innocent until proven guilty, that was it wasn’t it? I don’t need proof, when I know.”

 

It didn’t take a genius to see that the boy was trying to read its actions, and work out exactly what it might try to do next. And it took even less of one than usual, to read the surprise on his face, as Ethan released him to stumble forward, with a twitch of its hand, watching as he caught himself, and drew himself back up to his full height.

 

“So,” it tugged him forward a couple of paces and circled behind him, loving the way that he flinched when it tilted tooth towards his throat, flinched forward and tried to draw away without actually moving, “here the question is. What do you think I should do with a disobedient, traitorous little mutt?”

 

Rupert glowered at it, rage transcending any common sense.

 

“I’m not a fucking dog.”

 

As soon as it had drawn around to his front again, it lashed out with a backhand that spun him to the ground, and had him checking his teeth one by one, to make sure that none of them were loose.

 

It narrowed its eyes, glaring at him, “You are what I say you are. And you certainly haven’t shown me any reason to trust you,” it smiled at him, “didn’t it cross your head, that by leaving you here I may not have been testing you, boy? And it’s a test that you have failed rather spectacularly, too, have no doubt about that. I wanted to know whether I could leave you alone for… certain periods. And now you’ve gone and shown me that it’s out of the question.”

 

“I…I…I didn’t know.”

 

“What would the point of it have been if you had?”

 

“Ethan, I…”

 

“Shut up,” it grabbed him by the hair and dragged him half way up, hit him hard again, from his side, a violent backhand to his cheek met with a guttural snarl, that made tooth catch lip, and left him and the ground on his side, head spinning and with the salt-metal flavour of blood seeping into his mouth, when the white light cleared from his vision. He kept himself down, staring at it shoes as it paced in front of him, in spite of the fact that he instinct was to regain his footing. He knew that it wouldn’t make a difference whether he was on the floor or not, unless one counted the fact that it might be slightly less inclined to hit him if he kept his head down.

 

“So, Rupert; how am I to meet this?”

 

He knew that it was still talking to itself, in spite of the fact that it seemed to be addressing him. That was a mistake that he’d answered before, too. And still, it kept pacing, back and forth, in and out of his line of site, since following it was making him feel a touch of motion-sickness.

 

“I can’t trust you. I can’t leave you to you own devices and expect you to hold your peace. I certainly can’t allow your return to your age-mates, least you try to throw yourself to them on top of everything else. You see, the thing is, boy, that you are still a part of that world. And whether you’re in your place by my side of not, that doesn’t change. Besides,” it dropped into a crouch beside his head, and took his chin with one hand, tilting his head so that he was forced to meet its calculating stare, “I happen to quite like this world the way that it is. Tell me, if the true demonic were to succeed in dragging this world down into hell, then what would be the point of Chaos? Why bother to torment the human cattle, when anything less then than death would be a mercy, and death itself would be the greatest gift that one could give?”

 

He blinked; thought that he saw something that he couldn’t quite identify flickering to life in the depths of its gaze, but couldn’t be entirely sure of it.

 

“And what is the point of a world of the dead, when we need the blood of the living?” It flicked a thumb up, drew it over the rise of his lower jawbone, and stroked it over his cheek, a constant movement that actually felt nice, and Rupert’s breath was beginning to speed up a little, “I like this world, and its tricks, and its people. You’re such an amusing race to watch, at times. All so caught up in chasing out your own little circles, in trying to mark out what you consider as yours; all so focused on your own tiny lives.”

 

“I see no point in risking what I like, boy,” it shifted its grasp, and pressed his head down, tilting it. He could feel his heart beginning to beat a little faster, knew that it was staring as the veins beneath his skin. And ever though he knew that it wasn’t going to snap his neck, or sink its teeth in to drain him dry, he still couldn’t help his instinctual reaction, which was fear.

 

He could hear his own heartbeat racing, echoing in his ears and stirring his pulse.

 

“Do you?” It asked, as it smiled at him, lip still tucked back from tooth.

 

“N…N…No.”

 

“You see, I don’t care whether your Potential lasts two weeks, or manages to survive out a year, like some of the cleverer ones do. All that _I_ have to concern me is that you meet her. After all, I can’t turn you without risking the entire world until you’ve served out your duty to destiny, vacillating thing that she is.”

 

His hand rose towards his neck at that, and Ethan caught it with a free one, making a disapproving sound as it did so.

 

“You… you… you… you’re going to _turn_ me?”

 

“Yes boy, eventually and undoubtedly, I will turn you; after all, I’ve no plan to leave this life behind when you reach the end of your mortal coil. Although not without binding your soul to your flesh; beforehand; after all, I like you well enough to want to keep you intact, as you are.”

 

“But… but,” Rupert fell silent, as it rose its hand and a single finger traced down the side of his throat, marking out the path of the most prominent vein. He squirmed, and shivered, and bit down on his lip, trying not to show the way that the light touch its way over the surface of his skin.

 

“But nothing, Rupert; to draw the soul back to dead flesh, after the change; -that’s a curse, yes. But to bind the soul beforehand; well, it’s not easy. But it is possible, and it’s only maintaining the status quo. And it’s a spell that would take more than a simple moment of bliss to lift.”

 

It let go of his chin, and tapped the hand lightly to the ground for balance, as it stood again, and then drew him back to this feet. And for the first time in a long time, he gave in to his body’s natural desire, and closing his eyes he rested his forehead against its shoulder. Tomorrow he would tell himself that he hated it again, and that he didn’t want a single fucking thing to do with it, but for now he decided to allow himself to forget.

 

For now, he was sick of fighting; really, it was as simple as that.

 

“Tomorrow, you start learning again.”

 

“What?” he started back; would have drawn away from it completely if it hadn’t been holding him, hands tucked around his back, although when exactly that had happened he wasn’t entirely sure.

 

“Well, I obviously can’t trust you with others, so I’ll have to teach you myself.”

 

_Hours, and oceans away a young woman closed her eyes, and leaned in towards the boy that she had been dancing with, resting her chin on his shoulder, and flicked her gaze sideways, before he wrapped several strands of her wavy hair through his fingers, drawing them through lightly._

_He smiled at her, and leaned in towards her as she closed her eyes, and he brushed his lips against hers for the first time, unable to keep the grin from shining through. Not that there was any reason that he should have been trying to._

_When he spoke to her, his voice held to a very simple pattern; that of a young man who thought himself to be in love._

_She breathed in his scent, the spice of aftershave and the sweet touch of cologne, and wished that the night, and this moment in particular, could last forever. He kissed her deeply, tongue slipping into her mouth, and held her still, and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest, could feel that wonderful feeling of anticipation like one got when they looked across the table to a lover, and knew how the night was going to end, at that sweet moment when the rest of the evening dissolved into hours of teasing, verbal foreplay that would only much later be joined by the physical side of things._

_“Hank, I love you,” she whispered into his ear, and if possible, he held her even closer._

 


	12. Chapter 11 – Games (Threat)

** Chapter 11 – Games (Threat) **

“It’s hard to tell the truth  
When you’ve always lied”  
\- Ashley Tisdale – How Do You Love Someone?

 

“What is it?” Ethan circled behind him, as distracting as ever, and Rupert found himself struggling to think, as all that he could hear, all that he could focus on, was the sound of snarling. It barked something at him in a language the he was reasonable sure was Sumerian, although he wasn’t paying enough attention to either catch the sentence properly, so that he could be certain, or to begin a translation of it.

 

And the next time that it brushed past him he felt a hand make contact with the small of his back, as it shoved him forward, and he used the first spell that came to mind, which he thought might do something.

 

And it did; it changed the beast’s colour to an ugly bruise-yellow, and made it grow to twice the size that it had been. Again, it pushed him, and as he struggled to maintain some balance the thing’s shoulder shoved at the edges of the portal, and he felt a shock of power ripple through the room, as it got a now double-sized claw through.

 

Ethan barked something else out, Latin, something that he knew that he knew, but he couldn’t think past the situation, the moment that he was in. The claw swung out wide, and angled towards him, and he ducked, went to the side and lost his footing. The claw drew back, and a head, with deep purple eyes and wicked-looking teeth that must have been easily five inches in length shoved through instead. He could see skin and fur, the remains of its last kill stuck at the back between those vicious teeth, and its breath was warm and moist, and stunk of rotting flesh.

 

Its skin was mottled, almost pebbly, and hung loose, like a lizard’s. And as that head went for him, he lost what few wits he had managed to keep a desperate fingernail-hold of. He saw his death coming for him; couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his own heart racing, couldn’t think of anything past what those teeth would feel like as they tore him into the next set of tiny shreds of ribbon-flesh.

 

And behind him Ethan snapped something else, and the patch of air snapped closed.

 

The head hit the ground beside him, cut cleanly off at the neck, and Rupert almost fancied that he felt the earth shake as it hit, could see the shockwave pass up through skin and flesh and bone and muscle. That he could feel its last breath, as sudden as its death had been, cooling on his skin.

 

Although it was probably more likely to do with the fact that his heart was pounding so fast and hard that every beat shook his entire body.

 

“You’re dead; again.”

 

Ethan’s voice was almost conversational, as it covered the tiny space between them, and kicked him in the shoulder, as casually as though it were a teenager booting a ball.

 

“Ouch,” Rupert raised his hand to his shoulder, and winced slightly as his fingertips found the spot that was surely going to be sporting another bruise shortly. He didn’t bother to get up, simply lay on his back, staring up at the rusted sheet-metal ceiling of the abandoned factory that they were in. He found a gap that he could see a couple of lonely stars through, another that gave him a fragment of the moon, as his heartbeat began to slow, and he goy his breathing back under control again.

 

“You think _that_ hurt?” Ethan aimed another kick towards him, and this one he rolled away from, moving himself several body lengths away, as he rolled across the oil-stained, rough concrete floor that bore the scars of what easily had to have been a couple of decades abuse. Ethan’s eyes flashed with annoyance, but he still didn’t bother getting up.

 

It reached down and grabbed the head by the top lip, picking it up like it was nothing more that a paperweight. Rupert stared, as blood that was a deep blue, almost a black slowly dripped from the point of decapitation, and pooled on the floor underneath it, a slowly congealing puddle that was too viscous to spread.

 

“How much more do you think its teeth would have hurt, boy? Would you be saying ‘ouch’ when it bit you, and its venom swept through your system, firing off all of your nerves, until all that you could think about was the pain? What about when it drove you to scratch through your own skin, in order to try and stop that hell?”

 

Again, just as casually as it had booted him, it tossed the head to the side, and Rupert watched its off-centre rolling flight through the air, watched as it hit the floor and bounced once, flipping and spinning in a half circle, hit again and rolled several times before it came to a halt, nose half-squashed against the ridged metal walls.

 

“Doesn’t matter; I just can’t fucking do it. The… the harder you push me, the more I loose it. The portents have to be wrong. They just… it’s just wrong.”

 

“Get up.”

 

Rupert was familiar with that tone. That was the tone which meant _do as I say now, or I’ll make you wish that you had._ Funny, how it seemed to have less effect that it usually would have, when every muscle was feeling like it’d had a party of body-builders working out on it. He was exhausted, tired, sore, frustrated, and overworked.

 

Ethan hadn’t let up since it had said that it would teach him itself, and that had been four months ago, although it felt like it had been a hell of a lot longer. And every round seemed to end with him getting his arse kicked in some way, shape, or form. He had bruises on bruises, grazes in places that he hadn’t thought were accessible, and his power felt shivery, like he was pushing it to the very edges of his outer limit.

 

And his head was throbbing, again something that had been almost constant for the last few weeks.

 

“I told you to get up.”

 

There was no anger in the tone; it was simply a repeat of the statement said before. And with that Rupert knew that he was pushing at the outer edges of Ethan’s tolerance. A vampire didn’t exactly make the most patient of teachers, although he could have guessed at that without needing it proved first-hand.

 

Wincing as every muscle whined in protest he slowly made his was back up to his feet, and eyed it, shoulders rising and falling with every panted breath. He’d thought that his fencing instructor had been hard, but for all of his old-fashioned ways he didn’t compare with the ancient’s methods. No human did.

 

“There, I’m up. Now what the hell else were you expecting?” Gods, but all he wanted was to crawl back to the house and sleep for the next week or so. He knew that Ethan wouldn’t let him rest though, either not until the sun was threatening to rise, or until it was satisfied with the night’s progress. And neither option looked as though it would be particularly soon in coming.

 

“I think,” Ethan crossed a little more of the distance between them, but didn’t raise a hand to him, didn’t lean in towards him, “that its time we tried a different approach,” It passed him in a half-circle, and pulled the door open with a painful screech, “Come along now.”

 

Rupert grabbed his jacket, and tucked it under one arm as he followed it out of the factory. It was still early enough for there to be a reasonable crowd around, as they headed towards the main thoroughfare, Ethan working his way around the crowd as though he were moving to an internalized, timeless tune, and the tired teenager simply pushing through like he didn’t care who he shoved aside.

 

Finally Ethan came to a pause on a street corner, and as Rupert drew level with it again, he noticed that it was scanning the slowly thinning crowd, although for what he wasn’t sure. Then it raised a hand, and pointed towards a woman that he could only half-make out. Blinking to try to clear his eyes, Rupert stared at her, wondering. There was nothing remarkable about her, although Ethan was now moving to keep her at the edge of its sight.

 

“You see her?” Ethan asked, without looking away.

 

“Yeah I see her; so what?” Rupert narrowed his eyes, still trying to figure out why this particular person. She was a little unsteady, and didn’t look at all remarkable, but there still seemed to be something about her that it had latched onto.

 

“You and I are going to play a game, boy. If I get a hand on her, if I bite her, then I’ll drain her dry. It’s up to you to stop me.”

 

“What the hell…?”

 

“I just told you what the hell,” it looked at him and he saw no threat or malice in its gaze, only the hunger of a predator that was beginning to scent the kill, “If you can hold me off, until she makes it safely back home, or until the night is half gone, then she lives. And if not, then the blood is on your hands.”

 

“I thought…”

 

“You doubt my word?”

 

He looked at it again, and shivered slightly.

 

“No.”

 

“Good.”

 

With that it turned and slipped back into the still thinning crowd that lay in the direction that they had just come from, and he didn’t bother to waste the time with trying to figure out its plans. Instead he focused on the woman herself, trying to memorize the unique feel, the rough edges that her magic held.

 

_Shit. Stop something that’s had centuries of experience from making a kill? Sure, no sweat. Why not try to make it difficult for me and summon that thing that you were calling before?_

 

He heaved a sigh that sounded as though it were already defeated, and he wondered why the hell he should bother trying. Fuck it, he should just sign the death certificate and be done with it. He didn’t stand a chance, not against something like Ethan.

 

Then he closed his eyes. This attitude, giving in to his exhaustion and despair, would mean that its twisted game would be over and done with before it had even started. And maybe that would be easier, but it just wasn’t him. And he didn’t really want her blood on his hands, either.

 

He may not have even known who she was, but that didn’t matter. He had to get around this lethargy, no matter what it took. He had to reset his thinking; she may not have mattered in the grand scheme of things, but tonight there was no-one that was more important.

 

So, what to do was the question. He began to try and run through what he knew, what might help, and then became ever more aware of his time slipping away. He didn’t have the time to stand here formulating, and strategizing.

 

He would have to think on his feet. Half of the problem of earlier was gone; he’d known that his life hadn’t truly been in danger from whatever that thing had been, not with Ethan hanging around over his shoulder in case things went wrong. But this wasn’t his life. And this wasn’t a mock-game, this was real.

 

Focusing on the almost jagged feel of her power pulsing through the air, he began to hare down the street in the direction that she had taken, turned down another, and then rounded a corner, coming up to the street where he could feel her.

 

And he stood at the corner, blinking dumbly. The street was empty, which meant that it had been Ethan, laying a false trail; which meant that she could be anywhere.

 

Slowing his breathing, he focused outward, away from himself, trying to pick up something that was similar to the feeling that he had been chasing. And there he couldn’t feel a single thing that felt the same as she had this time. Then he realised that he was going about it wrong; he didn’t have to track her when he could home in on a sense of power that was infinitely more familiar.

 

All that he had to do was track Ethan, and go from there. And Ethan’s power was a lot easier to locate, almost jumping out at him. He was just about to take his leave again, until he was struck by another thought; if the thought had occurred to him; well it wasn’t like Ethan was stupid. He tried to home in on the feeling of power, and felt a hint of satisfaction as it faded away, like it had never been there.

 

So it had been another false trail, then.

 

Not letting his frustration get to him, he cast his net wider, and picked out something else, extremely faint like it was being masked to a point. And this one didn’t vanish as he focused on it, then drew back quickly to the point where he could only just feel it, like a fleeting glimpse of something that shouldn’t be there, caught out of the corner of his eye.

 

It wouldn’t do to have Ethan pick him up in return. As he began to chase down the new location, which was drifting slowly away he wondered how long Ethan was planing on playing with the woman for, and if he really had a chance.

 

The next time he caught up, it was to find her walking down a quiet street, with Ethan trailing her from the rooftops above. He stared, tried to start to build a plan, and it glanced back at him and raised a hand, almost like a greeting from an old friend. And that was a relief; it was going to give him a chance. Admittedly, it probably wasn’t going to be much of one, but at least something was better than nothing at all.

 

Then it faded back into the shadows again, and he turned all of his attention onto her, thinking as quickly as he could. If he could shield her somehow, or if he could do something to make it seem like she wasn’t herself, then that would help things..

 

Or maybe he could just chase her home; he was still reasonable sure that he could weave a decent-enough illusion. Then there was the more common version of a threat; his hand tucked into his pocket, and he fingered the handle of his flick-knife almost tenderly, even as he moved with her, desperate not to lose sight of her now that he’d found her again.

 

Then she turned a corner, and not even half a second later he heard a scream that was cut short. He ran, and came around the corner to find

 

“What the fuck?” it was genuinely as much of a curse as it was a question, because two human muggers were bearing down on her, and he didn’t have a clue where they had come from.

 

Pulling out his knife he lunged without giving himself a chance to think about it, giving over to instinct as the adrenalin began to get going, and stared in shock as the knife went straight through thin air where the shoulder of one of the jerks should have been, and his other fist was met with thin air. So, it had been nothing more than an illusion then.

 

Rupert felt a small hint of appreciation, even as she ran, and turned another corner. Bracing himself, he dashed through the cloud of animated air that he had tried to grapple with, and for a second it was like he’d stepped into the thickest fog in the world. And then he was through, and chasing down another street after her. And Ethan had already fallen into step behind her, matching her inch for inch, and twitch for twitch.

 

It was still toying with her, then, but in a manner that was getting more and more serious.

 

Again he acted without thinking, flung a spell that would solidify the air temporarily, a spell that was based in German and one that it had been trying to drive home for the last three weeks. It seemed that when it really counted he could pull it off.

 

He was exhausted, pushed to his limit, but the spells seemed to come to him easier when he wasn’t worried about screwing up, only focused on the outcome. With a gesture that he couldn’t follow, and a word of Latin, it nudged the spell aside. Rupert thought only about keeping up with it, and began to run down the street. At least until he slammed into an invisible brick wall half way down the street, hard enough to shock tears into his eyes. The spell would fade in about fifteen minutes, but he didn’t have fifteen minutes, damn-it. What the fuck was the counter?

 

The spell itself was _aushalten,_ so thinking about it logically, the counter should be along the lines of release. Hoping for the best, he focused on the space where the barrier was, and raised a hand, making a gesture like he was drawing something to the side.

 

“ _Entlassung,”_ he snapped at it, and stepped cautiously forward. And again it had worked, first try.

 

“Shit,” he muttered to himself. How much longer until midnight? His body clock had been completely thrown off by the gruelling pattern of the last three months. The sun had sunk somewhere between seven and eight, the trip to the factory had taken another twenty minutes on top of that, and he could probably call the session in the factory another hour and a half on top of that. And it was already at least another thirty or forty minutes out from that; following false clues, and _playing_ its game.

 

Meant that it was somewhere between nine thirty and ten thirty, or there about; and he was already ready to drop. Two and a half hours on one side, one and a half on the other.

 

And he swung around the next corner, and it glanced back over its shoulder, grinned at him as it shifted, and lunged at her, fast and silent. Reaching out with everything that he had, he slammed it sideways, and felt a brutal flare of satisfaction wash through him, as it came into sharp contact with the wall and picked itself back up, shaking its head to clear it from the blow. Then it was lunging towards him, and he met its lung with his right shoulder, and a swung left fist, hand curled tight around the handle of his knife, blade still retracted, for the extra solidity, and a bolt of pain shot through his fist as he made contact.

 

He snarled, and it tossed him to the side, although not hard enough to stun him, and turned back towards the woman. Rupert was on all fours, and he raised a hand towards it and again shouted the first spell that same to mind.

 

“Incendium.”

 

It could have been a huge mistake. But the spell flickered to life and died seconds later, and he wondered exactly what he was missing, as far as that one was concerned. And Ethan paused in it tracks, and turned back towards him, and the woman took advantage of the opportunity to vanish into the darkness. Well, on the plus side he had all of its attention focused on him, now.

 

Although that no longer felt like such a good thing, as it gestured towards him, and said something that he once again didn’t recognize, and his heart-rate kicked up a notch again as its power picked him up, and swept him against the wall of the alleyway that they were down. It tilted it head to the side, slowly, and regarded him through blazing yellowed eyes, and all that he could focus on was the length of its fangs when it was like this. He tugged against the points where his ankles and wrists were held back against the wall, tried to flick his own power under the edge of it.

 

The rough gravel of the wall of the building pressed against the backs of his hands, he could feel every single bump and dip in it. Then it drew itself back to the half-shift that he was familiar with, teeth shorter and eyes slightly less bright, although no less intense, skin smoother, and human-looking again.

 

And against his own will he felt himself relax. When it was like this, he was relatively sure that he could handle it.

 

Then he wondered briefly if this mightn’t be another tactic of the hunt; leave him pinned here, to find his own way to break it while it went after her again. If that was that case then it was probably game over; he had never yet been able to break this sort of magic. His heart-rate kicked up a new notch, then dropped back again as it shook its head, guessing at what he was thinking by the change in his scent as usual, probably.

 

“For now, it’s over, Rupert.”

 

“Why?” Rupert tugged at his wrists, winced as sharp tingle shot down through his arms, “You… you had the beating of me, hands down. If… if you wanted to, you could have ended it when I first lost you.”

 

“Yes, I could have,” it stepped closer to him, gaze focused wholly, pupils very slightly dilated, and coloured around the edges by black, trace of the power that it had been brushing the surface of, that it was still using, “but that wasn’t the lesson that I wanted you to take home.”

 

“Does that mean that she wasn’t actually in danger?”

 

The last time it had looked at him with that single-minded intent had been the night that it had gotten back, and it was hard for Rupert to keep up the flow of the conversation, and to keep up with it, when his thoughts were firing off in other directions.

 

“I asked you before we started if you doubted me. Do you doubt my intentions now that we’re done?”

 

He stared.

 

“No.”

 

“Good boy. I can assure that I would have torn her throat open. But the only thing that you would have taken from her death would have been your own guilt. To get you thinking, but not overanalysing I need you on your toes, not caught in your own little world of sorrow.”

 

It curled its fingers in toward the centre of its palm, and rested its knuckles on his skin, cold even against the chill of the night, and ran its thumb lightly over the skin. Damn-it, but he’d thought that a three month break from any of _this_ sort of contact would have been appreciated, but he had a feeling that it had been part of his distraction over the last while. The nights seemed to drag, and while he told himself that he was grateful for the change in circumstances, it didn’t stop his dreams from mocking him with flicks of flesh on flesh, or of what was almost a feeling of desperation, although that was again something that he never would have admitted to.

 

Closing his eyes, he twisted his head to the side, and opened his mouth, lightly sucking in its thumb, and kissing at it as it was drawn away. He could feel its laughter through its contact with him, just as much as he could hear it, as its finger traced along his left arm, up to the point where it was pinned to the wall, and the hand covered over his own.

 

“Give it to me.”

 

The words seemed almost cruel in the way that they shattered the night which was quiet aside from his own heart in his ears, and his own rapidly drawn breath. It took him a few moments to catch up, to figure out exactly what it was talking about. But as his mind stumbled over it, it was with a growing sense of dread that he forced his grasp to loosen so that it could take the knife.

 

It pressed its weight into him, like it was pinning him over a horizontal surface, and lowering its head, drew an equally cold tongue up the side of his neck. The night air made goose-bumps break out along the area, and he felt an almost dizzying rush sweep through him, a rush which only strengthened as it did little more than graze the side of his neck with its teeth, leaving a tiny pair of scratches, rather than the deep bite that he was used to.

 

 _But then, the rune would have faded by now, wouldn’t it?_ He thought, foggily to himself. Still, it licked up the twin scratches, and then drew back half a pace as its hands traced down his body, palms pressing flat against his chest through his shirt, and it undid the button and zip of his pants and dropped then so that they pooled around his ankles. There would be no finesse, or elegance in it; not that there ever really had been. Its cold fingers circled him, and he gasped, as it ghosted its hand up and down over his already stiff cock.

 

Moaning, he tried to move himself so that he was in better contact with it. It had been too long since this had last happened, as far as his body was concerned, for him to make pretence of fighting against it now.

 

And when he tried to draw back, the rough scrape of the gravel against the flesh of his arse reminded him the he was quite literally, back to the wall. It spent what must have been a few minutes doing no more than touch him, and then it released the points that were holding him back to the wall.

 

This couldn’t take long, because even though they were out of the street, this was still very much in public. But then, that was probably another thing that it didn’t care about.

 

And then the point of the knife was at his throat, and he felt a rush of fear-capped adrenalin hit him, another dizzying, world-shaking wash.

 

“Turn around.”

 

With a touch of awkwardness, ankles still trapped by his pants, he did as it bade, and it lifted the knife slightly, before pressing it back to his neck.

 

“Such a human reaction to a human toy, isn’t it?” its voice was low, and he could feel its touch of grin, as it bit at the back of his neck, and this time it was a proper bite. He could feel its own cock, hard as well, pressing against him through its pants, the sensation of denim rubbing against him, closed his eyes again as it pushed forward with its hips, and the tip of his cock scraped against the cool gravel wall, a sensation that was rough, but still not overly unpleasant.

 

But then, he knew how this worked, now. It was easy enough to go with it for now and then tell himself it was wrong, that he still hated it with every fibre of his being the next morning. Because if he ever had to admit to himself, away from that combination of adrenalin and fear, and that touch of pain and that bite of power, that whole confusing mass that he couldn’t, or didn’t want to try to make head nor tail of, that…

 

Well, he wasn’t going there anyway. So he didn’t have to consider it. But he knew that if he did, then he may as well declare that one _game_ _over_ , too.

 

The bite throbbed dully in the chill air, as it pulled away, and flipped the knife blade, dragging the flat of it over damp flesh, heard the sound of it as the blade slipped back into the handle sith a _snick_ and then its tongue drew over the broken flesh, and it made a little space between itself and him, lowering its own pants, even as this time it didn’t pull back from the bite.

 

Someone could be along at any moment, although as the hour grew later such a thing was less and less likely, and even when it had been a real threat, he hadn’t been able to actually care about the possibility, himself. He felt dizzy, as its tongue curled and drew across the wound again, and it ran hands down along the length of his arms, until it had both hands resting over the backs of the boy’s, pushing the palms firmly against the wall, bracing itself for what it was going to do next.

 

Then, without a word of warning it surged forward and pushed into him.

 

“Shit, you sadistic fucking cunt of a bastard” Rupert gasped at the brief stab of pain as it pushed past the guardian ring of muscles and slipped its full length into him, the chill inside feeling more natural than the warmth after it fed ever had.

 

And again he felt its laughter against him as much as he heard it, as it rolled its hips forward, and its fingers found a reasonably fresh bruise on his arm, which it dug its fingers into until he whimpered.

 

“High praise, boy,” the next tender spot that it found and honed in on was one that was just above his ribs, “high praise indeed.”

 

Rupert bit his lip so that he wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of a response, but its thumb pressed in deeper at that, until he flinched, and that seemed to be enough of a reaction for it, as it began to rock itself back and forth, that chill hitting that spot inside of him, that made his body ache and his cock throb in spite of him, moving in a way that was direct, and very much to the point.

 

Hard, fast, and brutal, and he knew that he was going to feel it tomorrow. Or in a few hours time, or whenever the hell he would.

 

The chill air against his flesh made the sensations that much more intense as it got a hand between him and the concrete, and held him in hand again, as it help its pattern of thrust and pull, letting the motion that Rupert’s body picked up thanks to that do all the work for him.

 

And it seemed like it was a far briefer time than it usually was, before it pushed deep inside of him, and its grasp changed from his cock, to a bruising hold on his hip, and it held still and he felt that chill that was even deeper than its cock, which was beginning to warm inside of him from the friction and from his own body heat, as it came inside of him, surging forward afterwards with a growl in the back of its throat.

 

Then its grasp on his hip eased, and it grasped his cock again, squeezing at it lightly, as it drew the foreskin forward, and ghosted a cold thumb over the slick tip, and with a gasp and a cry the boy came into its hand.

 

Bracing one hand against the wall, it pulled out of him, but still held him there with a hand on his shoulder, as it raised a knuckle to its own mouth and bit, drawing a little blood in, before it leaned forward and worked the blood-tainted saliva into the two teeth-wounds that it had left, so that it would heal quickly, although Rupert knew that the scar that would be left this time would be a rather distinctive one.

 

Taking an awkward, half-shuffle of a step back, so that it had the room it needed, it reached down and drew its pants back up, refastening them. The young man found himself biting back against laughter that felt out of place, at the way that the action looked, as he turned, still leaning into the wall for support and did his jeans back up, too.

 

He looked at it, wondering, as its teeth receded back the rest of the way, and its eyes darkened back to a regular human brown.

 

It put out a hand towards him, and he only just stopped himself from taking it at the last second, instead tucking both hands back into the pockets of his leather jacket. He saw a touch of annoyance flash in its eyes, even as it turned.

 

 _Christ, but what the hell had he been thinking?_ He had almost taken its hand like he actually thought something of it beyond the fact that it was a monster.

 

“Come along, Rupert. I’ll get us a drink before we head back.”

 

That didn’t sound like a bad idea, although he always felt thrown when it seemed to be developing a touch of almost-human consideration. A drink would warm him up, and maybe give him another place that he could go when he was feeling fed up with all of this.

 

He watched the street names until he recognized something, and eventually Ethan lead them down an alley that was only ten minutes away from the house where they currently were, and knocked on a solid looking door that didn’t look as though it had been opened any time in the last five or six decades, before saying to it a word that Rupert found he recognized, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t thought he’d taken in anything over the last three months.

 

“ _Offen,”_ he said to it, and Rupert automatically translated it to open.

 

The door swung open smoothly, and Rupert found himself looking into a private bar, all dark sold wooden bench tops, and bottles of liquor that looked like they were probably worth more than he’d had to his personal name in the last five years.

 

And the clientele was… unique to saw the least. A pair of Bothid demons, with deep blue skin and twisted pink horns sat at the far end in deep discussion, a few vampires in human morph were grouped loosely around a circular table, and a reasonably pretty looking female, with cat green eyes, whiskers, and a light dusting of black fur was sitting at the centre of the bar.

 

She twitched an ear, and turned her head as the pair came in, and she smiled at him showing a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth.

 

“Aria,” it nodded at her, and pronounced the name like it was related to Maria, only lacking the m.

 

“Rayne; it’s been a while. Is this dinner that you’ve brought me?” she turned her gaze back to Rupert, and the fur thickened, and red began to envelop her pretty eyes, spreading from the centre outwards.

 

“Take that jacket off, boy,” it spoke to him, ignoring her question as she gave the vampire at his side a smile that almost seemed to be flirting. The circle of vampires had fallen silent by now too, and a couple of them had risen.

 

“Thoughtful of you, Rayne; you and your pussy gonna share it with the rest of us? I can feel the power in this one from here.”

 

This wasn’t one of those times when it seemed like a good idea to argue with Ethan. He pulled the jacket off, and watched as the eyes of the vampire that had spoken widened, and it paled as it saw the mark on his arm, as the same moment as Ethan morphed and lunged towards it, throwing it over the other side of the table. Then, still moving at a speed that meant that the scene only came to him in flashes, it leapt the table, and grabbed it, dragging it up off the floor, and slamming it back against the solid metal door, with a sound like a hollow drum striking.

 

“You can pass the word on for me, Reg. Anyone touches what’s mine and I’ll tear their heart out with my bare hands.”

 

“I’m sorry, man, I had… I had no idea that you were taking students from amongst humans again, really, otherwise I never would have…” Reg was clinging to Ethan’s shirt, trying to push the other away, and Rupert noted that it looked genuinely scared of the ancient. He didn’t doubt that it was a genuine threat for a moment and with the way that the others had fallen silent, nor did any of the rest of them.

 

Ethan let go of him, and shoved him back with a feral snarl. He fell back against the wall, and didn’t move, not even to mimic the action of breath.

 

“I know you didn’t. And if I didn’t need you to pass the word along, then I’d have torn your head from that worthless body of yours so quickly that your dust wouldn’t pause to break stride. You try for the boy, and I’ll do it, regardless.”

 

“I get you, man, I get you.”

 

“Good,” Ethan nodded, and stepped back, before crossing back over to where it had left the young human standing. Placing a hand on his shoulder, it nudged him towards the bar, where the owner was wiping out a pair of glasses, with an air about him that said he’d seen it all before.

 

Rupert wasn’t so sure about being here any more, but Ethan drew out a seat for him, and took a stool for himself beside Aria, whose eyes had turned back to green, and he found himself wondering whether the hints that Rayne knew the Feralus better then he should have were justified, a query that seemed confirmed if the way that she was preening, licking the back of her hand and tugging it over her fur, and flicking sideways glances at it was anything to go by.

 

“Sorry about that. Can’t kill a girl for getting her hopes up, though can you?”

 

Rupert felt sick, as he stared at the bottles lined up, seeking anything that would keep him from thinking about… things.

 

“I’ve killed for less.”

 

At that, though, he felt a flare of brutal satisfaction

 

“By the way Rayne, thanks for not taking out the next three months worth of stock this time,” the owner grabbed a bottle and raised it, and Ethan nodded as he poured a small measure into both of the glasses, before pushing them over.

 

“Yes, well, after the way that you complained about it last time, Cad,” it grabbed the glass that was nearest, and nudged the other over to Rupert, raising its glass to the boy before draining it.

 

“This time I’ll take the extra on top of it too, thanks.”

 

He watched as the glass was topped up again, and this time the guy fished out a bottle of a thick, viscous-looking liquid that he poured in as well. It didn’t take a genius, watching the way that it tainted the colour of the liquid, and its slow-motion fall towards the bottom of the glass, to work out that it was blood.

 

Ethan took a sip, and flashed him the corner of a grin, “Well go ahead. Or did you want to trade me, boy?”

 

Huh. It was almost funny that he felt less sick at that suggestion, than he had at the one that… well, that.

 

He took a small sip from his glass, and rolled it around his mouth until his tongue was numb under it, and then swallowed. It burned down his throat, although it wasn’t as strong as the bottles that Ethan kept, and it warmed him, the feeling spreading out from his chest quite nicely.

 

“Not bad,” he muttered, reluctantly.

 

Cad; he was sure that he knew that name, had run across it somewhere in the Council’s main library. He just wished that he could put statistics, and a species to it.

 

“So what _is_ the deal with the kid, Rayne?”

 

“The deal with the kid, my friend, is that it’s none of your fucking business what the deal with the young one is,” it smiled, that expression that had always made Rupert wish that he could hit it. It was rather nice to see that the same expression had the same effect on others.

 

“Aside from the fact,” Ethan continued, as though it hadn’t paused for a fresh breath, “that if the boy choses to grace your presence with his company you will show him that respect that you afford to me. Or I’ll bring your home down so that it caves in onto your hollow ground.”

 

Again the tone was entirely conversational; it didn’t have to raise its voice in order for those that it spoke to know that it meant every word it said.

 

And _hollow ground_ , that was another clue, he was sure of it. Ethan had to know that he was trying to work it out, had to be toying with him.

 

“Of course, Rayne,” Cad muttered hurriedly, “wouldn’t dream of crossing you.”

 

Ethan had finished two more drinks, by the time that Rupert had finished his one. And even though it was still throwing out clues, he hadn’t yet been able to click them into place.

 

“Come on, boy,” it rose as it watched him drain the rest of his glass, “the night’s getting on, and so should we.”


	13. Chapter 12 – Games (Power)

** Chapter 12 – Games (Power) **

“You wrap me in your arms  
And chill me to the bone”  
-Linkin Park – In Pieces

 

He lay on his back, head twisted to the side, watching it. He wasn’t sure how he knew, because nothing was giving it away, but he did know that it was aware and alert; although maybe that had something to do with the fact that he’d been sleeping next to it for close to four years, now.

 

Sighing, he lowered his head back down onto its arm, and the corner of its mouth that he could see twitched into a smile. He knew that he should get up, take a quick shower, and start trying to pick his nightly fight with it, but Christ, he could just not be bothered.

 

Sometimes he wondered why he bothered with any of it in the first place, why he didn’t just stay laying still, and let the fucking world take care of itself for once. It drew its arm out, and stretched back, arching off the bed, before tucking its hands back under its own head, and turning it sideways to look at him. He could see a dark joy in its expression, and only now did it finally draw a breath.

 

“Can you feel it, boy?”

 

Shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, he pushed himself up into a seated position, and stared at it curiously. Reaching out with his sixth sense, that odd, far-reaching feel that magic gave, he could indeed feel something, that was almost like the crackling energy of a maelstrom, although a magical one, waiting to break. The air was alive with impending violence, or magic.

 

“Yeah; so what is it?”

 

“We used to call it The Disparity, when it feels like this. Happens very rarely, but it does happen.”

 

“And the full version of that, as well as one that I can understand, would be?”

 

“Sometimes when a Slayer is killed, there’s a space of time before the next is Called. It’s usually no more than a few hours, but for those few hours the night is unprotected, and the barriers between worlds are weaker.”

 

“A few hours of minor havoc, then. So what’s the big deal about that?”

 

“I said usually, boy. When it feels like this, it tends to be longer; maybe a few days, and the longest that I’ve witnessed was a week. And what a week it was.”

 

He could see the distance in Ethan’s gaze, the fond remembrance of Chaos. Chuckling at the thought of some distant hour, it rose from the bed, and rolled its shoulders back. And then it grinned, and fell into its usual half-morph, eyes glowing and teeth just past its upper lip.

 

“As for tonight’s going special, boy; we have a slice of Hell on Earth.”

 

He watched as its tongue flicked out, first over one fang and then over the other, before it turned and pulled a fresh pair of pants and a red silk shirt from out of the closet, and drew a black, button-up top on over that. Then, crossing its arms over its chest, it leaned back against the closet door, staring at him.

 

“Come along, Ripper,” it teased, using the name that he’d started to call himself when he’d first run from home, a weak attempt to cover his tracks, “tonight you’ll see the world as I see it.”

 

Eyeing it warily, he rose and chose a pair of black jeans and a white shirt, before grabbing his jacket.

 

“You know, in all honestly, I’m… I’m not entirely sure that I like the sound of that. I think I’d rather not, if…”

 

He broke off, as it took a step towards him, tensed himself for the familiar blow to strike him. And looked at it again when it didn’t, at the unnerving mixture of joy and that touch of wild malevolence in its eyes, which had already settled back to brown, and knew that he wouldn’t have a chance at making it listen to reason.

 

It raised a hand, and rubbed a single thumb over a point on the collar, something that he barely gave a second though to, these days. Again, he tensed slightly, although this time against the possibility of a bite, as it brought its head closer, but again, it didn’t.

 

“Ahh, Rupert. The day that you stop questioning me, what a day that’ll be. But believe me when I say you will enjoy this. I’ll make certain of it.”

 

“Again, not entirely sure that…”

 

“Shut your mouth, before I shut it for you.”

 

It pressed a kiss to the side of his throat, just over the pulse point, a brief brush of cold lip that made him shiver, and started down the stairs.

 

“Grab that knife of yours and come on.”

 

He hesitated, wondering exactly what it would do to him in retaliation, if he blocked the door behind it and refused. But somehow that didn’t seem like that brilliant an idea. And at least if he was out there, then he might stand a chance at curbing some of its impulses, although he doubted it.

 

Silently he followed it down the stairs, stopping a few steps away from where it had come to a halt, until it turned to face him again, and gestured with a finger.

 

“Come here boy.”

 

Slowly, he stepped up to it, and it took his head between its hands, fingers shifting slightly against his skin until it found what it must have been looking for, and it held still.

 

“This may sting a little,” it warned, before it began to talk in one of those languages that he didn’t yet have the hang of, although could still _just_ identify, as some archaic form of Egyptian. He tensed himself, telling himself to hold on, and then all coherent thought was gone, as the pain hit and he instinctively tried to twist away as its grasp tightened.

 

For a piece of time, he wasn’t sure how long really, he couldn’t see straight, couldn’t think beyond the pain. Then it faded and he was left floating in a sea of blackness. The world rocked, and he felt something nudging against him, heard a distant-sounding voice, and slowly came to the conclusion that the reason he couldn’t see was because his eyes were shut.

 

He opened them to blurred vision, which he had to blink at several times before he could see properly again. And then a noise drew his attention upwards and to it. He knew that he should be mad with it, knew that he should try to do something to get his own back, but he just couldn’t find it within himself to care. Not about what it may have done to him; or about that tiny piece of agony that it had just put him through, or about the people that might be falling to _it_ tonight.

 

In fact, at that thought, he felt that dark part of himself which he’d kept locked tightly down more or less ever since this had started, stirring with something that seemed to match that dark expression in its gaze.

 

“You’ve been fighting yourself too long. All that I’ve done is no more than let something that’s already a part of you out to play. Time-limited, of course, although I _know_ that you’d be a lot easier to manage like this.”

 

He should have been afraid. Of himself, of what he might do like this, even if of nothing else, but that too, was beyond him. He felt his grin spread to mirror its own, and it was more like he was merrily an observer in his own body than anything else, and it helped him back to his feet, and he stood, simply breathing, trying to find something of what he was through the numbing fog that he was now floundering in, which pulled at him that much harder as he tried to keep his head above the dark, deep waters that he’d been thrown to.

 

Feeling, flashes of feelings, joy, anger, rage, all heightened and glowing. And he could see it; swirls, eddies of power, spinning out across the night, calling to everything that could feel it to come out and play. It didn’t matter how, because for the next little while the nights were theirs. His last reasonable thought was whether the Council would be out in force, and Ethan, head tilted slightly to one side seemed to catch the question, and shook its head, grinning.

 

“Good old boys and girls wouldn’t dare show face on these nights.”

 

All of a sudden the house felt tiny, stifling, and seeming to catch this thought too Ethan threw open the door.

 

He wasn’t sure what he expected; screams, riots, fires that raged out of control, looting, demons stalking the street. But instead the world was silent, as though poised on a knife-edge. And still, that dark feeling in the night carried on growing, swelling, beckoning to even more.

 

Then he felt something, saw a flash of light in the darkness that only those who were connected could have seen. Could feel it, as the balance tipped, as all that was good and right with the world fell to the wayside, dragging him along with it, better than the best drug he’d ever tried. He was connected to everything, a part of all of it, could hear sounds and see things in the darkness that regular human senses would never have afforded. Laughing, a sound that echoed through the still night, he fell back against it, and it supported him until he found himself again.

 

And the still night wasn’t so still, it wasn’t just the power circling any more, there were things moving in the darkness now, too. He felt like he could do anything; be anything, take anything that he wanted. He was still chuckling weakly, as it nudged him forward so that he was supporting his own weight again, and it began to cut down the street, following a pattern in the wild magic that he could see, but couldn’t figure himself.

 

It paused, looked at him over its shoulder, and he caught up to it, and did the first thing that felt right. Raising his hand he caught it, tucked it behind its head, and drew it down into a kiss, initiating and taking the action over for the first time since that night he’d plotted his escape, although this time there was no undercurrent what-so-ever to the action, the feeling of its cool tongue against his warmth threatening to send him even further out of his mind, if such a thing were possible.

 

Placing a hand on his shoulder it pushed him back half a step and smiled down at him. Although it was barely down, these days. Over the last few years he’d gained another inch or so, was almost the same height as it.

 

“I told you I’d make sure that you enjoyed yourself, boy.”

 

He wondered what he’d been so worried over, although a tiny part that he couldn’t seem to shake off even like this was saying that he would sure as hell remember what it had been once the magic, the power, was out of his system.

 

Shit, but even its scent was intoxicating. If this was the way that it saw the night, and all the rest of that, then he found himself thinking that it was truly a wonder how something that saw the world as a game, and destruction and pain as child’s play, and death and savagery as goals had ever gotten control of itself in the first place. He didn’t feel like twice the length of time would be long enough for him to begin to find himself in all of this.

 

He tried to draw it to him again, but this time it stopped him.

 

“Plenty of time for that later.”

 

He grinned at it, revelling in the throb of raw power, the pulse of the darkness, the siren song of wild magic.

 

He wanted to feel something break at his intrusion, wanted to make something beg and plead, just for the raw joy of it.

 

“Ethan?”

 

“Yes?”

 

He laughed, and there felt something so _right_ about it.

 

“Let’s play.”

 

Closing his eyes, he found the most alluring thread in the wild magic, and opening them again he took off down the street, following its tug, which seemed to have wrapped around him the second that he’d targeted it, with Ethan following him, allowing him a few feet worth of a head start.

 

He didn’t know how long that he followed it for, only that the pull got stronger the closer he came. And after what felt like a hunt that had been far too easy, he came across her, a woman that held power but wasn’t connected to the deeper power, otherwise she wouldn’t have been out on a night like this.

 

There was already something else here, on her, and at that he felt a rage the likes of which he’d never know before. How dare this other take what he’d marked by power, what was rightfully his by the laws of strength? He gave it a fragment of warning, snarling at it as he lunged, lashing out with instinctual power, to spin it back. There was no fine control here, only action and effect. It struck the wall, spun back towards him, and threw itself towards what it saw as a far more interesting piece of prey than something that was helpless.

 

Rupert dropped into a stance, weight held lightly across his body, knife in his hand and extended, although he had no memory of reaching into his pocket and grabbing it out, and dropped his lips back from his teeth, growling in a mimic of Ethan’s usual snarl. All that he saw was another life that was his by rights. It would have been easy to reach out, and tear it to pieces with magic; too easy.

 

His body was singing, his blood, and his power begging for some form of challenge. He wanted blood on his hands, wanted to bare the scent of death as a warning to anything else that may have considered challenging him.

 

And Ethan stood to the side, arms crossed, looking unconcerned as its partner faced down something that was three times his size. It knew that the boy wouldn’t see the size, only the power, knew that the Kryt didn’t stand a chance. It was simply waiting for the inevitable.

 

It watched, as Rupert met the Kryt’s lunge with a firm shoulder, threw himself into the attack, and slammed it down with a blow that relied solely on a brute power that had been channelled through instinct, grabbed it and tossed it back, again channelling power to make such a thing possible with bare, human hands, catching it with the knife as he grabbed it.

 

The scent of blood stung him. Only a few tiny drops, but still enough, more than enough, even.

 

He fell onto it, grabbed its head and flexed his hand, feeling the strength of the muscles in its neck, before shoving its chin back and slitting its throat with a single swift cut, and settling back onto its body as it jerked and shuddered and finally died, its silvery blood which blackened quickly on exposure to the air running out to pool onto the ground just below his hand. Feeling every little bit the monster in the darkness, he shoved a pair of fingers into the slash that he’d rent, and drew them out, blooded.

 

A whimper, a tiny stir of unfocused power behind him, and he realised that he’d forgotten about why he’d been drawn here in the first place. In one swift movement, he shot to his feet, and lunged towards the woman who was only just now rising, that first touch of blood setting fire to an even deeper hunger. All that he could see now was her, the power, unfocused but still so strong humming beneath her skin, and he wanted to tear her open and let it out to play.

 

She screamed; saw nothing but a black-eyed monster coming towards her wearing a human face, and the fine spray of stray black blood that had settled on him.

 

And Ethan met his lunge, grabbing him by the shoulder and arm, using his own momentum to shove him past it, twisting his arm up behind his back for a few brief seconds, before letting go and sweeping his legs out from under him, bringing him to his back on the ground, knocking the wind out of him, where it straddled him, knees pressing down onto his shoulders.

 

It looked back at her, shoved at her with a stroke of power, and she stumbled and then fled into the darkness.

 

Rupert used the brief moment of distraction to get the armed hand free, with a violent twist up towards it, and he swung towards it, clawing towards its body with the hand that was still pinned, trying to throw it off, spitting and hissing and snarling like a wild animal, feeling nothing other than the rage of a predator that had been turned from a kill.

 

It caught the free hand, slammed it back down against the ground again, and he surged upwards, flipping Ethan over. It went with the roll, and pushed it a little further, slamming the boy onto his back again.

 

“I know you hate me for it now, but I’m not going to let you do something that you’d regret in a couple of days time. No humans, boy. Not while you’re still one yourself.”

 

The voice was distant, the words meaningless, lower than meaningless, especially when the night, the wild magic, was still so potent around him. He didn’t care about the running woman any longer. There would be more prey later on, after all.

 

All that he cared about was the moment.

 

Its hands were only holding him by the shoulders now, and that was a perfect new opportunity, as far as he was concerned. Reaching up he wrapped his arms around its back, pulling it down to him, kissing it hungrily with as much savagery as he’d pushed into the fight earlier on, kissing it like he was trying to kill it, tearing nails down cold flesh as it bit his lip hard, hard enough to draw blood, and he forced his tongue back into its mouth.

 

He was breathing heavily, body shaking with every pant, but still, even as he danced with the desire to have what he wanted right there and then, to ask it to fuck him where he lay, the wild magic stirred another burst of restlessness in him, and his hands fell away, and he looked up at it, trying to remember how to communicate.

 

Now he wanted nothing more than to be moving again, hunting down a fresh stream of power, something else that he could claim as his own, another life the he could take power from.

 

His head was spinning; or was it the world? He could feel every atom, and the wealth of information that it shared with its partner molecules. It was all a part and parcel of the wild, untameable, beautiful night.

 

Although who the hell would want to try to control this? If anyone did attempt it, then it would surely drive them mad, even being hooked into such a small part of it was threatening to send him overboard.

 

It was like he was drowning in it, and he didn’t care enough to come up for air.

 

“Now when you’re not taking in a single thing that I’m saying would probably be a good time to tell you that you’ll feel like hell when this wears off, too.”

 

Again the words were meaningless. The only difference that they made was that it was something else to hold him down, keep him here. Growling at it he tried to throw it off again.

 

It laughed, and stood, hauling him back to his feet, and he stood there breathing deeply, breathing it all in. Trying to take it all in, but knowing that he wasn’t getting a half of it.

 

It watched him, waiting. And then it heard something on the air that made it smirk, and the boy obviously felt a fresh challenge. It seemed that not all of the boy’s brethren were yellow-bellied dogs after all.

 

It was Aria, eyes red, clothing torn, a small completely furred breast hanging out, claws extended to tag her chosen prey, and obviously as completely high on the night as the boy was.

 

It screamed through in his every action and motion, it really did. Rupert had been born into his power with an instinctual feel for how to wield it, and how to fight; it was only his prior _training_ that had dulled his natural edge, training that the Council had been responsible for, and that it had spent the last three years trying to correct. What the boy still didn’t get was that it was all a part of him anyway, and always would be – and that the longer he fought himself for control the harder that dark edge would bite back.

 

With a critical eye it studied Aria in the few seconds that it got, before she leapt to meet the boy’s challenge. This would be a harder fight; she had a couple of century’s worth of skill but she was getting older, even though she didn’t often act like it. And the boy had the raw, primal fury of youth and pre-restrained power on his side. It would almost be a shame to loose her, considering some of the times that he’d spent with her, but still, needs must.

 

It smiled at Travers, who was shaking, and morphed fully, the grin spreading as it stared down the shaken-looking man.

 

“You may want to get out of here while you still can.”

 

Rupert dodged under one swipe, but caught her other claw to his shoulder, cutting through his shirt and leaving four shallow scratches from the claws that extended from her second knuckles when she fisted her hands. A brief burst of heat, a sweet, slight sting, and his own anger rolled over him. He’d wanted to tear her to shreds ever since that first night in the bar and now he finally had his chance.

 

She caught him, dug the four claws on her left deep into his shoulder and twisted, and he jerked his head forward and sunk his teeth into her left ear, bitting down past her pained hiss and swung out with his knife at the hand that came towards him, sinking it between two fingers and through the centre of her palm. She howled as his teeth met and the point of his knife drove into the dirt of a tiny grass verge, and hot salty-sweet blood flooded into his mouth.

 

Nothing like the metallic salt tang of a human’s, and nothing like that cold almost wine-sweet flavour, touched with only a tiny hint of metal, that he had come to recognize as Ethan’s.

 

Twisting his head to the side he spat out the half of her ear that she had given him, and wrenched the knife free. Her bloody hand followed it up, claws coming dangerously near to his throat. With his free hand he grabbed the brutalised, bloodied ear and twisted, slamming down against her wrists with his power as he did so to pin her, Ethan’s favourite trick, as her entire body jerked with the wash of pain that the twist sent through her.

 

It watched as he raised his knife, and brought it slowly down, positioning it on her chest over her heart.

 

Rupert could taste her fear on the breath that she was struggling for, could see the way that the wild magic was beginning to cut away from her, could feel it hitting him in tiny bursts that were sending adrenalin through him, and giving him fresh traces of power on top of what he already had. This night of power was giving her up to him, whispering to him. She was his; he could do anything that he wanted with her, she was lost.

 

He parted her fur with the tip of his knife, and rested it lightly against the surface of her skin. She twisted and writhed under him, left him longing for something else. Gods, but what he wanted to do… That scent of fear that was flooding out from her was almost more intoxicating than the raw power that he was currently a part of. Tilting the knife slightly, he traced a slow path along her breastbone, up to a point just under her chin, considering.

 

It wouldn’t be hard, not at all.

 

Then he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and the knife jumped of its own accord, and drove deeply through her jugular, severing it cleanly. Her gaze flashed sideways to where Ethan was standing, and he saw the gratitude there plainly, felt the power rushing out of her as she drew a single gurgling breath and her head dropped back as her eyes went back to green, and glazed over.

 

The scent of another fresh death in the air, alongside the knowledge that it was his doing, the blood that dripped from the wound, again his doing, it all drove him higher still, touched a hunger that he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to satisfy. As long as there was life around, he wanted each and every last one.

 

It was glorious. And he felt the movement as Ethan came up beside him, felt its hunger for his body as it stared at him, at the blood that he was wearing like a mask, and the sheer joy in his expression, its eyes darkened with lust.

 

“Shall we?”

 

The world, the night, was still calling to him, pulling at him to keep playing, but looking at it, being able to see what it felt in the air that it shifted, the heat of its strength, its desire to lay claim to his body until he could think of nothing else; giving the game up felt like a pathetically tiny sacrifice.

 

He still couldn’t remember how to talk, but it slipped a finger under the collar and drew him back along a path that he would never remember, with how gratifying and distant this world seemed from the one the he knew.

 

He wasn’t sure of how he got back to the house, wasn’t even sure of how long it took, as caught up in the thrill of the dizzying ride as he was. He sure as hell couldn’t have led the way, especially when he wasn’t sure of how one foot was still winding up in front of the other, when it again felt like he was watching everything from outside of his body. The rush of adrenalin, the power that he’d gained from those two lives, which had been pressed into him hands, had temporarily connected him to something other than himself, and now that that was beginning fade he lost himself completely in anything else that was trying to draw him away.

 

Ethan’s hunger was white, a white so bright that it seemed to be burning though from the inside, given substance by hunger and a thirst that was currently being denied.

 

The tiny part of him that was still hanging around and was him, found a fresh touch of marvel at that self-control, especially if this was the way it lived, feeling everything with the potency that he was seeing at the moment. Or was it only as strong as it was because of the circumstances of tonight?

 

Enough thought for now; he didn’t; couldn’t, care enough to think on it any further.

 

It shoved the door open with enough force that it bounced back against the wall, and almost swung closed again, before it was caught by a hand, and Rupert shoved past it into the house, tossing his jacket to the side and pulling his shirt off over his head, wincing as it stuck to the blood on his shoulder, a sharp, painful reminder of the wound.

 

And then Ethan, already completely stripped was on him, walking him backwards up the stairs, as Rupert continued where he had left off from, kissing it deeply, running his tongue over its teeth which were again half-extended, and dancing it over its own, kissing hard enough to scrape his teeth against its lips, and then it was pushing him backwards.

 

He landed, sprawled on the bed, and watched it, a fine shiver running through his body, as it picked up the old cuffs and the choker, already linked, and a strip of thick material. It looked at him, was the standing epitome of calm, and a complete contrast to the feelings which were still running hot through it. It had been years, after all, since it had last chained him back.

 

“It’s your call, Rupert. Tell me what you want.”

 

“I want the bloody world at my feet.”

 

It laughed, and raised an eyebrow, “I could do that, but there’s always seemed to be too much paperwork that would stem from complete domination. Specifics, boy; what did you want right now?”

 

That hunger for blood and violence and pain which had been a part of him ever since the spell had been cast flared into a brilliant, brutal new life.

 

“I want everything.”

 

It growled, and the edges of its eyes, around that blaze of yellow darkened further. Then it reached out, and pressed against one of the claw wounds, sending a jolt of pain through him that only served to further his high, and stiffen his trapped cock even more. He gasped, and moaned, and it pressed down harder.

 

“If that’s the way we’re going to play this, then you’ll ask me properly.”

 

_Oh, gods, how did talking work again?_

 

“I want everything, please, Ethan.”

 

It fastened the choker around his neck, and snapped the cuffs into place, linking them to that old chain that it fastened to the headboard.

 

“Lift your head.”

 

He refused, simply for the sake of it, and was rewarded by the familiar open-palmed blow to the side of his face, that seemed to threaten to shake his brain loose. Or back into place as the case may have been tonight. Grinning up at it, he lifted his head, and it wrapped the material around his head, and fastened it in place over his eyes. The darkness was total; he couldn’t see a thing, but he could still feel far too much, his sense of the wild magic seeming heightened by his sudden lack of vision, as it swirled and swarmed around him, torture in it own way.

 

Its fingers, touch brief and cold as ice, as it unfastened his jeans and pulled the down, tossing them to the side if the sound of it was anything to go by, as it freed his aching, weeping cock. Then with its touch still deft he felt another piece of material being fastened around the head of it, to starve off orgasm.

 

That tiny piece of him that was still him, that was still hanging around was asking him what exactly he thought he was doing, and telling him that he couldn’t have made a more stupid decision.

 

He felt the change in the air as it shifted settling on the bed over him, shivered as a cold hand ran up his side, and tensed, somehow knowing what it was going to do, as it left his side and ghosted over the skin, just close enough that he could feel the chill from it, and came to pause over his wounded shoulder. He braced himself, breath coming in fast bursts, as it drove the heel of its hand down over it, until he saw flashes of red in front of his darkened sight, red that went through his entire body, in perfect time with his pulse, and had him squirming, and he wasn’t sure whether he was trying to move closer to it or draw away from it.

 

Through the haze of pain he felt something else, its cool tongue moving over the skin of his face, starting just below his chin and working over every single tiny piece of skin, teasing around the edges of his lips, twisting away from the possibility of the kiss that he tried to snare, as it eased the pressure on his wound, and with the relief that flooded through him and the way that it sent him reeling from his senses again, he knew why it had done it.

 

The tip of its cool tongue moved up over his cheeks, first left then right, and stopped at the bottom of the blindfold as a hand slipped down his chest to stroke over the achingly hard length of his cock. Closing his eyes behind the total blackness, he felt the mattress shifting as it moved again, its right hand finding a bruise that the Kryt had left behind and homing in on that as a pair of fingers continued to ghost over him, and he felt lips pressing down over the wound on his shoulder which was still throbbing, before it angled its head and drove fangs into the flesh just above it, and he gasped as he felt its tongue, soothing against the heat of the torn flesh, licking over the wound. Moaning, he dropped his head back completely, as the tip of its tongue pressed into the first of the claw-wounds, cleaning it out, and then sucking hard to draw fresh blood to the surface.

 

Its hand stopped stroking, and he felt its fingers sliding up behind him, felt a fingertip coming to pause at his entrance, and drawing the choker tight he pushed himself down towards it, burying it halfway inside of himself before he couldn’t go any further, and he held himself there, enjoying the feeling of pressure on his throat as his head began to spin again, the way that it complemented the way that the wild magic was sending him drifting. It drove its fingers in the rest of the way and pushed him back up the bed with the hand that had been playing over his bruises, then it began to work the pair of fingers in and out of him, hard and fast, until all that he could think of was that feeling that was pulling him away from himself, the easy slid of it in and out of his body, sending sparks of fire up through him, tiny sparks of magic to his brain, and through to his cock which was now throbbing to the same beat.

 

The teeth were torn from his shoulder, and then he felt another tiny sting, as it bit his lip, and kissed him heavily, controlling the action in much the same way that Rupert had sought to, earlier on. Its tongue carried a tiny hint of the flavour of Aria’s sweet blood, that wasn’t masked completely by his own over it, as it invaded his mouth in much the same way that it fingers were doing to his body, shoving down and claiming every centimetre that it could reach.

 

He was breathing heavily, shaking, and still he wanted more, but he’d forgotten how to talk again, in the wake of what was being done to him. Tugging at his wrists, he savoured the sensation of being trapped, and completely at its non-existent mercy.

 

He felt it break off the kiss, felt its fingers draw out of him, and he was in motion, rolling over and positioning himself; head going down to rest on his hands which he’d brought together, and he didn’t even hear the rush of air before it struck him again, a hard blow just off the side of his left ass-cheek, and he flinched, feeling warmth spread up over it, and down over his leg just below.

 

“For being presumptuous,” it muttered, cool exhale over his shoulder, and then landed another four blows in quick succession all perfectly on top of the first.

 

Then he felt it moving again, felt a hand trailing down his spine, and then cool lips pressing to the heated flesh that it had struck, felt a cool tongue over it, and couldn’t help the noise that he made, half-yelp, and half moan, as it bit him again, deeply, and drew its teeth out to let fresh blood flow freely. He felt it sucking over it, felt its tongue on the wounds, once more soothing, as a pair of fingers stroked over his tortured cock again.

 

He wasn’t sure how much later it was when it drew itself up his body and pressed against him, positioned itself over him again; cock lined up with the overly-sensitized flesh at his entrance, sunk its teeth into the top of his right shoulder, and slowly pushed into him, its chill almost burning against the slick, roughened skin, after the way that it had been working him before.

 

It shifted its head so that it could drink again, and set a brutal rhythm, hard and fast, and each time that it struck inside of him in the right way, it sent another jolt of something that wasn’t quite pain, but wasn’t completely pleasure either, not any more at least, through his bound cock. He had never been quite this hard, never felt anything like this before in his life.

 

He was fighting for breath, didn’t know which way was up and which was down, didn’t entirely care about that either, and it was still seeking out those areas that were overly tender, or aching, and making them burn.

 

Still holding to that relentless pattern, he felt a fingernail moving up over his cock, felt it tearing the material away, and as it slammed into him again and this time he buckled under it and he came, the orgasm strong enough that he saw white in front of the blackness, and the world went away completely, and this time when it came back, he could feel that chill deep inside of him, already soothing over aching, overworked flesh, and it was drawing out of him.

 

He couldn’t stop himself from shaking, as it freed his hands and lifted the choker away, and untied the blindfold. He could feel every muscle, every single joint, and they were all weakened and aching. He could feel muscles and joints that he hadn’t known he’d had, and they were pretty much in the same state, too.

 

“Stay there,” Ethan’s tone was soft, surprising after what it had just put him through. He was still panting for breath, watching it half out of the corner of his eye, as it raised its hand away from his line of sight, and he knew it well enough now to know what it was going to do.

 

Those cool lips pressed back to the bite that was just off the side of his ass, and he felt moisture, blood-tainted saliva being washed into it, to heal it. Quietly, it moved back up and did the same to the one on his right shoulder.

 

“Roll over.”

 

He didn’t roll, so much as collapse on his side and force himself onto his back, making muscles that didn’t want to cooperate either with one another or with him work in synch again. Ethan’s eyes, still yellowed, moved over his front.

 

“The minor scratches have stopped bleeding already, but I’ll still take care of them if you want me to. That one on your shoulder, though, that’s something that will leave you with a hell of a story to tell.”

 

“Don’t care. Whatever.”

 

Even those three words were a struggle, when all that he wanted to do was sleep for a week. Closing his eyes he felt it as Ethan drew the tainted mix up his arm, felt it shifting again, presumably for more of its own blood, and then a sharp stinging throb, as it washed it into the wounds high on his shoulder, a process that it repeated several time before it drew away, seemingly satisfied.

 

“Rupert.”

 

He forced his eyes open.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

“Stupid question,” he wanted to growl at it, but didn’t have the energy to, “like a truck’s run over me. And I need to sleep for… oh, just wake me up some time before next winter.”

 

It chuckled at him, and he wished briefly that he had the energy to take a swing at it, as it rose to its feet, and pulled the blankets down from under him, and then up to his shoulders over him, before leaning down over him and doing something that seemed so human that it felt painful, it pressed cool lips to his forehead.

 

“Yes, well, that’ll be the spell starting to work its way out of your system. Get some sleep, it should be about half-done the next time that you wake up, and then I dare say you’ll want to roll over and sleep your way through the other half of it, too.”

 

He tugged the blankets up further, and then as an afterthought, lifted a corner up towards it, “What about you?”

 

“It’s dusk in a few hours. I need to go out, then I’ll be back to wait for when you come to again.”

 

He still must have been half-out of it, because something freed his tongue, and he found himself asking something that he’d been wondering about for a couple of years now.

 

“Do vampires dream?”

 

He saw something that he couldn’t identify flashing in it gaze, and watched through half-lidded eyes, as it turned back to the stairs, and closed the door after it without a further word.

 

Sleep took him instantly as he closed his eyes, and the next time that he stirred his head was throbbing like he was in the grips of the worlds worst hang-over (which, all things considered he probably was) and his muscles felt even worse if such a thing were possible.

 

He felt a hand slid under his head, and a glass lifted to his lips, which he practically inhaled, and Ethan’s high potency liquor burned its way down his throat and curled up like a dog made of fire, in his stomach.

 

Closing his eyes he rolled away from it, and drew in a pair of deep breaths to make sure that he was still capable of the action.

 

“This is your fault. Go fuck yourself in a shaft of sunlight.”

 

“Why, when you’ve such a way with words?”

 

He heard the sound of the door closing; felt the blankets pulled back and its cold body settled flush against his, soothing in some tiny way.

 

“Go back to sleep Rupert.”

 

_No arguments there._

 


	14. Chapter 13 – California (Stepping Up To Destiny)

** Chapter 13 – California (Stepping Up To Destiny) **

“So pray then, if it makes you feel safe  
But all I can say, is we go our own way”  
-The Used – On The Cross

 

_There were times when he thought that they must have been mistaken. How many years had it been now, after all, and they still hadn’t found any Potential that lit up over his name, so to speak?_

_Times that he thought fifteen years with a monster must have gotten the better of destiny; that he was waiting for something that was never going to happen. It was sobering to think that he had spent half of his life with Ethan, and frightening, that that life actually seemed normal to him these days._

_He’d decided to stay in, for the night. The Council had asked him to come in, but that wasn’t something that he could ever make himself overly enthusiastic about; Travers had become unbearable after that night that he’d seen him running wild with Ethan, and he’d saved the man’s life._

_And Ethan was out doing gods knew what; probably either hunting or stirring up a spot of hell, or something other. He didn’t know, and he told himself that he didn’t care. Either way, it had left with the sunset, a few hours ago, and hadn’t been back since._

_It was still constantly working him, still keeping him at his prime, and the challenges that it set never got any easier, but he found himself wondering why it persisted when at times there hardly seemed to be a point. After all, if he wasn’t going to have a chance to use what he had, then why should he bother with it?_

_Taking a sip from the glass that he’d poured when it had left, he found himself re-reading the passage in his book for the forth time. He was half-way through slamming it in disgust, when the door opened._

_Catching himself, he shut it the rest of the way gently, and looked up as it walked in, papers and an envelope grasped in its hand, which it set on the table in front of him._

_“Pleasant evening?” it enquired, casually._

_“Dull,” he muttered flicking his eyes from the papers, over to it, “What the hell’s this, then?”_

_“This,” it grabbed his glass, and drained it, “is why they called you in.”_

_He felt a wave of incredulity wash over him, “You went to a meeting that they called me in for? What the hell did they say to that? And why?”_

_“Because if I’d been reading the portents right, then I had a feeling about what it was for. And I’ve a feeling that you’re going to appreciate the irony of this one.”_

_“Hmm,” he raised an eyebrow at it._

_“They’ve located your Potential. But, it’s not quite that simple; she slipped under their radar. Already an Active, you see. They scrambled someone who was closer into place, before checking her, and he’s already got himself killed.”_

_“And what am I meant to find ironic about all of this?”_

_“Her location; it’s Southern California.”_

_And, in spite of himself, Rupert could feel the corners of his mouth twitching, as he rounded off for it, “I think they call it ‘The Sunshine State’.”_

_“That’s it, precisely.”_

_“So, the Vampire goes to watch the Slayer, in the Sunshine State. You could even take up sunbathing.”_

_He kept a straight face for all of five seconds, and then began to laugh, a sound that was breathless and relieved, and completely genuine. Ethan watched, arms crossed over its chest, and waited for the mirth to pass, which it did a good couple of minutes later, as, gasping for breath, he pushed himself up straight, and looked at it again, sobering quickly._

_“And the papers are?”_

_“In the envelope is a plane ticket, and the stack is the permits that you’ll need, and ownership papers to a house over there, under your name.”_

_“Well, that takes care of one problem,” as he still couldn’t enter a home without an invitation, unless he went the hard way about it, “but what about you and travelling?”_

_“Simple enough, actually; you can set up the foci once you’re over there, and I’ll teleport.”_

_“You’ve done that before?”_

_“Yes. Not all that often, admittedly, because I quite like England, but I have had more than enough experience to know what I’m doing.”_

_At those words, Rupert felt a rush of a combination of both excitement and fear. The first point was because this was finally happening. And the second point was because once this was over and done with, so would his days be._

_Ethan wouldn’t have any reason to hold back, once his Slayer was dead and gone._

_And yeah, that was definitely a cause for anxiety._

Fifteen years of hard training had served to transform the powerfully-built teenager, into a sold, well-muscled, man, who not only looked like someone that you wouldn’t want to pick a fight with, but was someone who had an air of danger about him, too. Without trying to, he moved with a predator’s silent step, and constantly watchful air, kept himself in constant motion even when no-one was there to see it, so that he was constantly poised.

 

His eyes were hard, still far older than his body, his gaze something that people were reluctant to meet. He wore his hair down to his shoulders, a tiny effort to cover the scar that Ethan had left high on his throat. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t, and most of the time these days he found it to be another thing he didn’t care about.

 

He was still standing, still mostly sane after what he’d been through, and that was all that really counted.

 

He ran a hand back through his hair, as he stood in the main room in the ground floor of the dark, quiet house. The place was comfortable enough for what it was, aside from the fact that it had obviously been empty for a while.

 

In fact, it was close to the place that he had shared with it up until now, aside from the fact that the rooms were a little larger.

 

There had been no-one to see him to the airport, no one waiting there to offer last-minute advice or luck, or to wish him farewell and safe travels, or Godspeed. It was those little things that he missed, those little things that he probably would have had if not for Ethan’s presence in his life. For the first time in a long time he found that old resentment, so strong that it was bitter, and chose to ignore the fact that he probably wouldn’t be alive for any of this to happen without it, anyway.

 

Fifteen years; he thought he had some right to pick and chose what parts of the story he wanted to focus on.

 

He double-checked the foci, triple-checked the circle itself; and all of the surrounding elements. If he fucked this up… _well_ , he shrugged to himself on the tail-end of the thought, _if I fuck this up, then there’s not actually a hell of a lot that either it or I can do about it._

 

He made the cross-Atlantic phone-call, and let it ring several time before hanging up, before settling back to wait.

 

Five minutes dragged past, became ten, fifteen, twenty, and he was beginning to have his doubts, when there was a flash of light and a flare of power, and it appeared in the middle of the circle.

 

It was pale, he could see what the crossing had taken out of it, could see the weariness in the way that it was holding itself, even though it had probably fed beforehand.

 

“I hope the trip wasn’t too rough.”

 

It stood and stretched, nodding at him, “I’ve had worse. You’re competent enough. It’ll be a night or so before I adjust to the time difference; do I have time to hunt?”

 

“That depends entirely,” he responded dryly, “on whether you feel that your cloud of dust is capable of stalking and feeding.”

 

“I’ll pass on that particular experiment, I think. So when do you meet her?”

 

He looked at it, coolly, before pushing up to his own feet, from his knees, “Five days, Ethan. How do you know that I haven’t already?”

 

“Because you still smell like you usually do. No trace of Slayer, yet, and that’s a scent I’d recognize from several streets away.”

 

He sighed, and parted the circle, before he began to clear away the ingredients, “Today, and tonight to adjust. I start the job they set me up in, tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, as a matter of fact, and I should meet her then.”

 

“Yes,” Ethan stepped out of the now broken circle and crossed the room, flicking on the light-switch, more for the sake of the action then out of any necessity, “and you still haven’t told me exactly what the _job_ they’ve set you up with is, yet, either.”

 

“Does it matter? Daytime hours, so you’re hardly going to be popping along to… oh, I don’t know, bring me bloody lunch or something.”

 

“Call it curiosity, for curiosity’s sake,” it stooped, and picked up the last of the crystals that had been set out, and tossed it in a fast underhanded throw that Rupert caught easily in spite of the fact that he was already balancing three in his right hand.

 

“They’ve set me up at the local high-school, where she’s apparently enrolled. As the sodding librarian. There, now are you satisfied? You quite plainly get your revenge, for my laughing at you the other week.”

 

“Could be worse; you’ll still get ample opportunity to sleep in a position like that.”

 

“Yes, and speaking of sleep, I’m worn out.”

 

His gaze danced to it for a fraction of a second, and flicked away, and it caught the look, knew that the man was asking what he still apparently had difficulty with. It simply stood, patient, as another ten minutes dragged past, and Rupert rallied himself.

 

“In all honesty, I passed that stage where I couldn’t settle on anything a couple of days ago.”

 

Still, it waited.

 

“I…” he darted his gaze up and then away yet again, and took a deep breath, “I really need to get some rest, or I’m going to be useless tomorrow. Would…” he swallowed, “would you come and lie down with me? Even just a few hours should be enough to get me off, and by then the windows should be lightning for you, and you can do what you need to.”

 

“Of course, Rupert,” it reached a hand towards him, and ran a finger over the point where the leather of his collar met flesh, and he shivered slightly, closed his eyes leaning towards the touch for a few moments. Then he drew away like he’d been stung, and led the way up to the stairs, in a place that didn’t smell like home, to a bedroom that held no memories; nether of pain, nor those tiny moments of peace that the man had managed to find, in spite of the fact that he would still never admit to them.

 

Gods, but this town, this entire country was hot; hot and stuffy. He felt like he’d been sweating almost constantly, in one way or shape, ever since he’d boarded the plane back in England. Stripping down to his boxers, he settled on top of the covers, and watched as it did the same, and came to rest next to him. Raising his head, he rested it on its still chest, and closed his eyes.

 

Sometimes he had to admit there were good things to be said for having an ice-pack lying next to you.

 

When he woke up, it was to find he was alone. Rolling over onto his side he stared dully at the numbers that were glowing on the digital clock at his side, and blinked to clear his vision. It was just after three in the morning, and he supposed that he still had his sense of time that had been thrown out by the move to thank for having slept most of the night.

 

He wondered what time the sun would rise, knew that Ethan would be able to feel it before it happened. And there would be no way that he was getting back to sleep, certainly not tonight. The fact that he’d already slept as long as he had was nothing short of a wonder.

 

The place was still stuffy and oppressive. A cold shower would probably do him some good, and then it wouldn’t hurt to gain a reputation for being an early riser, and on the ball. A cold shower, coffee to keep him going for the day, and some toast would do it. Yawning widely, he rolled over and swung his legs off the bed, to get started.

 

His first thought, on meeting the Principle was that the man was nice, but dense. Certainly enthusiastic about the job and about making friends amongst both the staff and the students and cherry in a way that most people found endearing, like a bumbling puppy that you found tagging along behind you after walking down several streets. Rupert found himself half-amused by the man’s act at first, and thoroughly fed up with him after half an hour of ‘chatting’ which involved listening to the man’s plans, and nodding at occasional intervals.

 

Another half-amusing though was how he would have turned out if Ethan had been anything like him. He found himself smirking, as he wondered what he’d have done if it had tried to sit him down for a heart to heart to get to the bottom of things, rather than simply up and hit him.

 

It was after the man had spotted the old scar on the side of his neck, asked about it, and Giles had brushed it off as crossing an angry dog, that he finally managed to make his excuses and leave.

 

Still, it was easier to manipulate a dense person, than it was to twist a cunning one, so that should be to his advantage.

 

The library in itself was a nice enough building, all dark polished wood and contrast of shadow. The books that the Council had sent ahead of him were already all shelved since he’d taken care of that over the last few days, and above everything else the place was quiet, something that he truly appreciated.

 

Occasionally a student would drift in, and look around as though having expected to find something else, and would head back out. Most were mundane, and he wouldn’t have picked them out of a crowd for any reason. But there was one amongst the masses, so to speak, that perked his interest.

 

A red-head, who introduced herself as Willow, who shook his hand and actually met his eyes before looking away, like recognizing like, to a point. He could feel the natural power in her, buried and stifled as is was, but still glowing even in spite of that. As she read for twenty minutes before class, he found himself studying her, wondering how much of a push it would need before she started to harness some of that energy, wondering if she had any idea at all of the potential that she had.

 

She was one of the few people that didn’t instinctually shy away from him.

 

But in spite of that point of interest the morning was uneventful. There was still no sign of the Slayer, yet.

 

In the end he felt her coming before he saw her, innate power cutting through that heavy Californian air around half a minute before she opened the door. Unsure of himself for one of the few times in his life recently, he stood and circled to the other side of the desk, wondering if a common vampire would have felt this strange mixture of excitement, reluctance, and fear before coming face to face with a Slayer. He wondered about what her reaction to his situation would be, whether a damaged Slayer’s sympathies would lie with a twisted Watcher, and whether he even really wanted them.

 

Then he decided that he would simply try to survive this initial meeting. When she opened the door he pushed himself off the desk and had taken a step forward, when she froze and looked straight at him, almost, it seemed, looking through him to a point, as she tried to figure him out. He’d often wondered about how he must come across to those that didn’t know him, and if this was anything to go by…

 

After giving her a few moments he cleared his throat, “You would be Buffy Summers.”

 

Her eyes narrowed, and that, he could live with, having had Ethan give him that same look, that one that made him wonder whether he would be safer off over the other side of the room, more times then he cared to count.

 

“And who the hell would you be, with all your creepy stalker-ish air about you?”

 

He extended his hand, and then thought better of it when she got an odd sort of expression on her face that made him wonder whether she was planning to break his fingers. Quickly he tucked it back into his pocket.

 

“I’m Giles; Rupert Giles. I’m… the Council sent me in as your new Watcher.”

 

That feeling; as though he were being committed to her memory, and now mentally compared to another increased, up until the moment that she tilted her head slightly to the side, frowning at him, “You don’t look anything like the one that I had before. And your personality type… well, it doesn’t exactly scream Watcher.”

 

Then she reached forwards, and held his hair to the side of neck away, studying the scar that Ethan had left there, speaking softly, “And the last one didn’t come with that either.”

 

Then she let his hair drop, and anger spread over her expression, anger at her own actions and an anger that was directed at him, “And what on earth do you think gives you the right to try to waltz into my life with your ‘Ooo, I’m the new Watcher’ line, anyway? In case you didn’t get the memo, I’m over the whole Slayer gig. In fact I quit before I came here. It’s done and dusted.”

 

With that she turned and swept out, and came as close to slamming a swinging door as he’d ever seen.

 

He stared after her, wondering briefly if he should chase after her. And then the reality of the situation hit him, and he tried to bite back the laughter that threatened to boil over.

 

A Slayer that quit; now that was truly unprecedented. For that matter, it was probably just as unheard of as a Watcher bound to an ancient.

 

Taking a couple of deep breaths while he still could, he spoke out loud to the empty library, “Well, that couldn’t have gone much better.”

 

And then he began to giggle, a mixture of relief and that _what that hell do I do now_ feeling. At least she hadn’t staked him; yet. That was a positive, wasn’t it?

 

The rest of the day dragged, until the final hour before the day was through, when the boy came in, with something that was as much a part of his physical scent as him magical vibe, that had him back on those dark small-town streets with Ethan.

 

It was there, but it was faint. And if he hadn’t come across it before, then he probably wouldn’t have noticed it. Or at the least he wouldn’t have noticed that early, at any rate.

 

Drawing his power back into himself instantly, he found himself staring, but not actually seeing.

 

_It was just after midnight and he’d been with it, the dark shadow at his side for six years now. Snow blanketed the quiet streets, making everything overly bright, and in spite of the almost painful chill he was only wearing a tee-shirt on his top half, contrast to the heavy steel-capped boots and thick jeans that he had on._

_It was far from the worst that he’d experienced, after all._

_This life still felt strange whenever he though about it and although he doubted that was something that would ever change, there was a part of him that had, at least come to accept that this was his lot, now._

_Tonight had started out as another one of its ‘games’, an exercise in tracking and following, but it had been cut short when it had thrown cover aside  fifteen minutes ago, and come out into the open to wait for him to catch up. He wasn’t sure what was behind its actions, but knowing it as he did he was sure that it couldn’t be anything good._

_He didn’t think that he’d fucked this up enough for it to call quits; but then, he supposed he would find out soon enough._

_Raising a finger to its lips it told him to keep his silence, before he had a chance to voice anything, and beckoned him to its side, before, scenting the air to make sure of something, it started down the street at a pace that obviously wasn’t full speed, but something that he still struggled to keep up with._

_He felt it, well before he saw what it was, a powerful pull that left him thinking of only one thing and one thing alone, struggling within himself to find some way back to himself from that overwhelming desire that he wasn’t sure he could hold himself back against. It heard the sound that he’d made as he paused in mid-step, and grabbed him by the arm, grasp painfully tight._

_He was grateful that the pain gave him something to keep him connected to reality. And what he saw down the next block brought most of the rest of him back, although he still couldn’t shake the feeling of what his power was telling him that he should be doing._

_She was young as far as things went. Rupert wouldn’t have thought her any older than sixteen. Pretty, too. Brown, curled hair fanned out around her face, hair that matched the deep brown of her eyes. Her skin was pale, but he could still that she would have had a good, healthy complexion._

_She would have been ever prettier, if those eyes hadn’t been filled with fear and pain, if her breath hadn’t been bubbling with blood from her throat, if her skin colour hadn’t been the same white as the snow that was beyond on what she laid._

_A deep gash in her chest showed the purplish colouring of intestine to the world, and was wide enough the he could see white bone, that of ribs to the side of the wound. The snow around her was stained red, a dark, ugly shade of the colour, a shade that seemed a lot thicker than it should have been._

_And it was obvious, from the scratches and bruises and marks that covered her, and from the blood that covered her thighs, that something, or maybe more than one something had used her and left her to die._

_He wondered how the hell it was that she was still hanging on, and even as he felt sickened, he still couldn’t shake it._

_Ethan was staring at her, passing a critical eye over her wounds, unbreathing, and Rupert wished that he had the same option._

_She was looking at them, lips moving wordlessly, eyes pleading for help. After what felt like an eternity Ethan crossed the snow to where she was, dropped into a crouch, and took her head it both hands, twisting it hard and fast, until something snapped._

_Ethan stood again and that broke the spell of the moment. Rupert found himself retching, hands on his knees, fighting to keep himself in check, swallowing against that sickening feeling, before giving over to it. Gods, but what that power had been urging him towards…_

_A hand came to rest on his shoulder at around the same time that food stopped coming up, and was replaced by the acid bite of bile. Drawing a shaking breath in that tasted of what had just come up, he slowly straightened and wiped at his mouth with his forearm._

_“Shit, Ethan.”_

_He couldn’t find the words to ask what he needed to, couldn’t begin to find a place to compose his thoughts._

_“She was already dead. I just finished it.”_

_Shaking his head weakly, he held himself through another wave of nausea, although this one was rather less extreme, probably because everything that he could have gotten rid of, he already had._

_“Come on, one foot in front the other.”_

_The pressure of its hand didn’t lessen in the slightest, and eventually he got himself moving again, focusing on nothing more pivotal than the ground that was underfoot._

_When he finally trusted himself to talk, he drew away from its touch and turned to face it._

_“What the hell was that? I mean; that feeling, that… that scent… I couldn’t think past it when…”_

_“Let’s take this somewhere warmer.”_

_He didn’t argue, as shaken as he was feeling. Keeping in step with it, he let it guide him to the private bar; a place that he’d been to more than a few times since it had first led him there. Taking the drink that Cad poured the moment he saw the pair coming in through the door, he drained it in one go, wincing as the alcohol hit burned down his raw throat and hit his empty stomach, putting it back down for a refill that he was promptly given._

_Ethan had already pulled out a chair at one of the small tables and Rupert sat down across from it. It sat in silence, contemplating the drink that it had grabbed off the bar on the way past. And then it looked up, caught his gaze._

_“A working biology lesson for you, Rupert; I’m sure in some those books you’ve read, that you’ve come across the mention of those rare humans that exude a scent, or a pull or what-have-you that grows in strength with developing maturity, which draws in the demonic.”_

_“You… you’re saying that that was a born submissive?”_

_“If that’s the going term, these days, then yes it was. What most don’t realize is that there is a purpose to the scent. Blood, compatible bloodlines, those that are capable of blending, breeding with those of the old blood. If they’re capable of producing viable matter, that is. Somewhere back in that girl’s ancestry there will be some demonic or quasi-demonic antecedent, and luck or lack of it made a usually recessive gene active in her.”_

_“But, then…- I mean… she couldn’t have been older than sixteen, no where near mature. And why… why did it hit me like that? I… I’m not like you, not yet, at any rate.”_

_“But think, Rupert. You, of the Watchers bloodline, you’re a descendent of the Shadow Men. And on top of that, my blood lingers in your system. It’s really no wonder it hit you like it did. And as for your other point, well there are certain circumstances that can accelerate the production of the scent that the mature carry. It’s nothing more than a sexual musk, after all, if you will._

_“The first is if one of the old blood forced her, claimed her without marking her. The act itself fools the body into thinking that it’s at the prime stage for production. That’s what you saw here tonight. And the second is marking, without the latter. Marking, in itself is simple enough. All that it can take is a brush of direct power, and such a thing accelerates the scent because the body feels that if someone else is showing interest, then they must be ready. It takes a while longer though, usually a few days. Most don’t make it to twenty._

_“If it’s done right though, if a child is both marked and claimed by the same one, then it can speed the process of the scent settling, because it means that the young one is in an active relationship, trying for what they’re meant to be doing. It can make it happen within a few years.”_

_Rupert looked at it, over the rim of his drink, and took a small sip, turning over what he’d been told in his mind, “And over those few years?”_

_“Anyone that both marks, and stakes a claim has to be strong. Strong enough to know that they’ll be able to keep it alive, that they’ll be able to fend off anything else that is drawn in by the scent. And even afterwards, there will still be the odd one or two that find it… alluring.”_

The way that the boy fidgeted made him aware that he had been staring. Shaking himself to snap back to reality he cleared his throat.

 

“Sorry, you… It’s just that you just reminded me of someone that I used to know when I was younger. I’m afraid I was rather off in the past. Anyway, I’m Giles.”

 

He held out a hand and was surprised when it was actually taken.

 

“Already knew that. Xander Harris; is me. I, ahh… I was just looking for Willow as a matter of fact. She mentioned you to me. And the truly wacky book collection that you’ve brought with you. She’s not around is she?”

 

Leaning to the side he peered past Rupert, almost as though expecting him to be hiding her.

 

“No, I’m afraid not.”

 

“Well, thanks anyway. I guess.”

 

The way that the boy moved, he almost seemed to be awkward in his own skin, an observation that wasn’t lessened at all by the way that he carried himself, as he turned and left the library. Staring at the retreating back through the window he found himself wondering exactly how long this one would make it before the inevitable happened.

 

Although if the witch learned to harness that energy that was just waiting for her to find out that it was there, then he supposed there was every chance that he might just make it through those essential years.

 

As the day finished he made his exit from the library as quickly as he could, so as not to get waylaid by any other staff members asking for his life story. Confidently he cut through the unfamiliar streets, weaving the bike that he’d had shipped over through traffic and around corners, getting back to the house in less than five minutes. Of course he had the sensible car option as well, but some days he preferred the bike.

 

Idling, he kicked the stand down and turned it off as he set the alarm, heading up to the house, desperate to get out of the heat of that bloody infernal sun. Inside it was dark, at least, and slightly cooler than it had been outside. He knew that he could truly come to despise this damned weather.

 

How hard would it be to get someone to fix the cooling system in this place?

 

Taking off his leather jacket he hung it over the hook on the back of the door, and pulled of his boots and leather pants, then debating the practically of the situation, he mounted the stairs and tossed the shirt that he’d been wearing under it onto the chair that stood over the other side of the bed.

 

Ethan was lying on its back, again on top of the bedclothes, hands tucked behind its head, eyes closed. Only resting, not that strange mockery of sleep that it had, he judged. Briefly he wondered if the heat troubled it too, or whether such a thing only concerned the living. After all, heat did make corpses rot faster.

 

As he stood there, it inhaled and opened its eyes.

 

“You smell of Slayer. And something else under that, faint but…”

 

He returned its cool stare.

 

“It’s nothing. And they gave me a Slayer that doesn’t want to Slay.”

 

“How… appropriate.”

 

“Yes, that was my second thought. My first was wondering how the hell I’m meant to get around this.”

 

Ethan had risen and was circling him, still scenting the air around him, determination and concentration creasing its brow.

 

Then it drew away, a touch of triumph in its expression.

 

“You smell like a submissive.”

 

“Yes, I’d imagine I do. I suppose it’s to be expected though, with this place on a Hellmouth. Did you find what you were looking for last night?”

 

He kept his tone of voice conversational, in spite of the fact that it was looking at him like a cat that had just scented a particularly juicy mouse.

 

It drew a slow tongue up the side of his throat, and then along the stubble of his chin, before burying its nose into the hollow between his throat and shoulder, drawing in another deep breath, and growling softly on the exhale.

 

He turned his head to look at its expression, and wasn’t particularly surprise to find that he was met by yellowed eyes.

 

“I imagine if I’d been looking for anything in particular then I would have. There’s a rather extensive system of tunnels under this town. Some manmade, some beastmade, links practically anywhere you could want to go. There’s an access under this place, could come in handy.”

 

He swallowed, forced his mind back to the conversation that he was meant to be following.

 

“That’s good. And I…, I…” he lost his train of thought, as it licked up the back of his neck, forced himself not to react or respond. He wondered exactly what that damning scent was doing to it, even as faint as it was. Lips brushed the base of his spine, and he turned towards it.

 

“I suppose I should probably head back out, try to talk some sense into this damned girl.”

 

“Yes, I suppose you should. You do have a job to do here after all. Any plans for tracking her down?”

 

He searched his mind for the right solution, sorting through the training that it had installed in him. He’d never thought that he would have to use any of it to track down a teenaged, super-powered girl. And then he felt a grin touching the edges of his expression; there, after all, was his solution staring him in the face. The fact that she was an undisciplined teenager was an answer in itself, a part of her just as much as the power that she had.

 

“I’ll try the teenage hangouts. There aren’t all that many of them, not in a town this size.”


	15. Chapter 14 – Dominance (Communication)

** Chapter 14 – Dominance (Communication) **

“Don’t stare at the setting sun  
I say youth is wasted on the young”  
-       Pet Shop Boys – Gin And Jag

****

_London_ _. He quite liked London. And he sodding loved the freedom of the weekend that stretched before him, and the cash that it had given him. He wasn’t sure what it was that he’d done to change its mind, but he wasn’t going to look the gift horse that he’d been given in the mouth._

_It had said that it had a couple of things to see to. He’d been expecting it to take him with it, keep an eye on him as it usually did. After all, it hadn’t trusted him to his own devices ever since those four days where he’d gone behind its back and proved that it couldn’t._

_But instead it had left him in the middle of London, with cash in his hand and strict instructions for where to meet it in two days’ time, saying that it would travel faster on its own, and to enjoy his break, because it would be the only one that he would be having for a while._

_He knew that there would have been more to it than merely travel speed, but he wasn’t about to question it, for fear of it changing its mind._

_He was seeing the city through a different set of eyes than he’d had when he last came here. He was jaded, rougher around the edges, and he knew that he could take more or less anything that it may have cared to throw in his direction._

_The first order of business had been to find a place to stay, and then he headed out into a city that never seemed to rest, watching with a half-amused manner as people crossed the street to avoid him, or stepped deftly out of his way. He never had to dodge collusion or company, something that he supposed he had Ethan to thank for._

_He was beginning to wonder what he should do with his freedom, when he heard the pulsing beat of music coming from inside the club. He’d heard scratchy blues voices, and country style guitar outside a few of the bars, but this was the first of those that drew him in. Thinking about the cash he had in hand, he wondered if there might be enough to buy a guitar._

_He’d taken lessons from when he was twelve, through to the week before he’d run, his father’s way of trying to reconcile him with his destiny, and it had been something that he’d really enjoyed. He wondered how rusty he would be these days._

_The club was dark, lights were pulsing, and the cover charge had been fifteen quid. But the band up on the stage seemed determined to make it worth every cent._

_Smiling to himself he sipped at the drink he’d brought, and settled in to watch the rest of the show._

 

These places were all the same really. Smoke and sweat and music that you couldn’t hear your own thoughts through, a hive of heat and humans and shadows that would attract almost anything that was looking for an easy target.

 

He quietly earmarked four vampires, spread out through the crowd, set aside from the humans that they dwelt amongst by the way that they held themselves, like they were condescending, and showing deference towards humanity simply by considering them as prey. He knew that look well enough, had seen it on Ethan a lot more than once or twice.

 

The other thing that gave them away was the lack of life-light in their auras, something that he’d suspected for a while now had something to do with the inability of the dead to cross the thresholds of the living. After all, it was old folklore that a ghost couldn’t enter without being asked, any more than it could leave of its own free will.

 

And he could feel her, apart from the crowd, too.

 

As he climbed the stairs to where she was, looking down on the people like a watchdog staking out its territory he could feel gazes following him, another thing that he’d grown used to. While most people tended to avoid his direct presence, it seemed that he still presented an interesting enough object for younger girls to watch from afar.

 

He made sure that she saw him coming, and while she scowled at him in much the same way as she had this morning, and he knew that if looks could kill he’d have been dead on the spot, she didn’t make any effort to pull away.

 

“You try to deny your own nature, but you’ll never be able to stop watching out for them you know. Otherwise why else would you distance yourself from them? You can walk amongst them much like the predators do, but just like them, you’ll never truly belong. We can pretend for a while, but that’s all that fate affords her chosen, I’m afraid.”

 

He rested his arms on the railing, and leaned forward observing the tangle of humanity and other.

 

“What do you see when you look at them?”

 

She forced herself to look away from him, giving him the cold shoulder once again, just as he’d thought he may have made some form of impact.

 

“I’ll tell you what I see; fools and idiots, which the world needs in order to keep spinning and keep the balance. People who will never know you, but will none the less owe you the very product of their lives, some who probably already do. Nothing can live in pure water, just as nothing would be able to thrive if the old ones purified the Earth of the human plague to serve their vision. You are the sun amongst the stars, dear girl, and to try to lay your destiny aside is as pointless as trying to stop yourself from breathing.”

 

“You… you sound like you’ve tried.”

 

He hadn’t been expecting the reply, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t welcome it.

 

“To a certain extent, yes, I have. Which is why I know that no matter how well it seems to be going it’s still going to up and bite you in the arse.”

 

“Didn’t work well for you, huh?”

 

He chuckled, and she caught the touch of bitter about it, “I’m afraid I’m forced to say that that is a rather impressive understatement.”

 

“That says volumes for the whole bad boy attitude, though,” she let out a slow breath, and shared a reluctant glance with him, gave him a tiny half-smile, “you’re still trying to keep a part of yourself in this, too, huh?”

 

“Something rather like that, yes.”

 

“You know I saw my last Watcher die?”

 

There was something of a test about the question.

 

‘Yes?”

 

“That… that’s not meant to be the way it works, is it?”

 

She sounded so young, with that statement. And that gave him all the insight that he needed. He saw through the bluster, and the reluctance, and the anger, to a frightened child, much the way he himself had once been. He could still remember his denial then his father had explained the family business to him when he’d been ten. And he saw the trust that she was showing him, in spite of the fact that she obviously wished that there was no call for it.

 

“It’s a Watcher’s job to keep his Slayer alive. As far as that goes, Merrik outdid himself. And I promise you that I will do everything within my power to keep you safe.”

 

_Yours isn’t the only time that’s limited, dear. I’ll keep myself alive for as long as possible, too._

“I… I look at all this shit that I’m apparently meant to know, all of these things that I’m meant to be able to face, and it scares me. And out there your friend, tall, dark, British and handsome told me that I was standing on the mouth of Hell, and that the Harvest was coming. Didn’t do all that much in the way of assurance, you know?”

 

“My friend?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Something told him that she didn’t mean Ethan. And from somewhere the Harvest rang a bell. Actually, for that matter, it was striking quite a loud alarm bell; he just couldn’t place it for the moment.

 

“He was about yay tall; all muscle and mystery? Good taste in clothing, gave me a necklace?”

 

“Not mine, I’m afraid,” he shook his head, and tried to place that damned reference again, grateful that Ethan wasn’t here to witness his spectacular failure at recall.

 

“Oh.”

 

For a few minutes longer he let the music wash over him again, almost but not quite sealing the rest of the world out again.

 

“Most Slayers don’t know anything of a normal life. They’re raised by their Watcher, moulded into the weapon that they’re supposed to be from birth. Consider yourself lucky that I didn’t raise you; I wouldn’t have made a good parental figure. And destiny, fate, the plan of the Powers That Be, the puzzle of magic, whatever you want to call it, it can be terrifying. And none of us get to choose the part that we play in the scheme of life. The only choice you get is how you’re going to deal with it. Or, if you wanted it in plainer terms, life sucks, then you roll over and die.”

 

Again he laughed that bitter sound which made her wince.

 

“Pretty bleak way of looking at things, don’t you think?”

 

He shrugged, “I am the product of my life, as you are of yours.”

 

He blinked down at the crowd below them, seeing for a few moments nothing more than flashing patterns in a partial light, with tiny spots of darkness and power standing out amongst the rest. At times like this, he had never felt more alone.

 

She leaned over the barrier, staring at something that she’d spotted, frowning. Blinking, to look at things normally he peered towards where she was staring, towards where the potential powerhouse of a witch was engaged in conversation with a vampire. Fleetingly he wondered how old it was, even as the Slayer gave into the call of her duty and headed down the stairs.

 

He made to follow, but she was gone before he was a quarter of the way down the stairs himself. Frowning to himself he wondered how much of a fuss the Council would raise if he got her electronically tagged, what with the habit that she already seemed to have of disappearing on him.

 

Sighing, he shook his head, and did his jacket back up, before slipping out the door and leaning back against the closest wall, not giving a toss about the grime on it, as he closed his eyes and tried to extend his senses to pick her up. He’d done his best to memorize the way that she felt in that short period of time beside her, but it took a long time to be able to identify the finer points.

 

Then he heard sounds. A male talking, the seductive whisper of a female, that sound which was more a change in air pressure than it was an actual sound, the sound of a hybrid shifting for the feed.

 

Keeping his tread quiet, and his power masked, he positioned himself so that he could see, watched as the blond female drew back from him after a few seconds. He knew that most others probably would have rushed in to save an innocent, but he wasn’t most others. If he let the female lead him, then he would know where he was headed.

 

He gave her a few minutes head start, and by the time he came to the crypt, the Slayer was already emerging again, with a pair of shaken-looking teenagers with her; Willow, and the boy. She shot him a grateful look, as she watched him arriving.

 

“Look, can you please make sure that they get home safely? I… I’ve got to go back in.”

 

She didn’t give him a chance to answer, turning back towards the door of the crypt before she’d finished speaking. And he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, before she could disappear into the darkness again. Glad for the reflexes that Ethan had installed in him, he stepped back from the instinctual fist that she swung towards whatever was stopping her from moving forward.

 

“What the hell is your problem? The more time that I waste here with you,”

 

“At the moment you’re my problem,” he cut across her sentence, “or at least, your blatant disregard for you own safety is. You were planning on going back into there, maybe going underground? Are you honestly going to walk into a nest that you don’t know the layout of, not knowing the numbers that you’re up against, or the strength or age of those that you’re going to challenge?”

 

“But, Jessie…”

 

“But, Jessie nothing; I’m sorry to put it like this, but if they’re going to use him for food, then they’ve probably already done so. And there’s nothing to be gained by chasing a corpse. If they aren’t going to, then you’d be better served by hitting them during the day, when you’ve the sun on your side if you need it. A few hours won’t make a difference, since it’s already after midnight.”

 

A flash of anger and something else that he couldn’t quite identify darted across her expression, “You know what? I was beginning to think that you might actually be worth the time of day. But you’re just a … a selfish jerk.”

 

She looked at him coldly, and turned her back, leaving him with Xander and Willow to focus on as she vanished into the darkness with a rather irritating skill.

 

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, wrestling with the desire to rub at his temples with his thumbs for the next five minutes. The sound of movement reminded him, even more frustratingly that he wasn’t alone, as much as he wished that the rest of the world would simply crawl under a rock. Finally, he managed to, if not snap himself out of his annoyance, then at least shove it somewhere into the ball of feeling that was building in his chest as he realised exactly how worn and worried the pair were.

 

“Right, home for the pair of you, as well. My car is a couple of blocks away, so if you wanted to give me directions…”

 

Neither of them made a move. And then Willow spoke up, in a hesitant voice, while Xander simply looked as though he were fighting to stop himself from being sick. They both looked so young. They were young.

 

“Those things; they weren’t human were they?”

 

“I’m afraid not,” he placed a hand on each of their shoulders, and finally got them moving, walking towards the boundary of the cemetery, “they were vampires.”

 

Xander shook his head, “Nah, had to be a trick of the light or something. You didn’t see it, but it had to be.”

 

“And you can keep telling yourself that, right up until the moment when they come out of the shadows and go to tear your throat out if you want.”

 

He unlocked the car, and gestured for the pair to take the backseat. And at that moment they looked even more reluctant, and he did not have a single fucking idea of how to go about the whole reassurance thing that he was obviously meant to have some skill in. He bit back his impatience.

 

“Look, the sooner it is that you get home, the sooner it is that you can both get some sleep and start to recover. I know that it’s a shock, but things will look better in the morning.”

 

“Sure, sleep,” Xander asked, as he finally lowered himself into the car, and Willow followed suit, “Got a good sense of humour there. I… I’m not entirely sure that I’ll ever sleep again, not after that.”

 

“If it’s reassurance that you’re after, then the best that I can offer it that some of the legends are true,” he started up the car, and sat as it idled for a few minutes, “and you’ll be perfectly safe at home. A vampire can’t enter a place of residence unless you invite it in directly.”

 

He pulled onto the road, and stole a glance in the rare view mirror.

 

“So, if you’d care to tell me where home is.”

 

It was Willow that gave him an address, and Xander shook his head when Giles waited on him.

 

“I’m thinking I’ll crash at hers tonight. Again, that’s if I possibly can, at all. And if I can’t, then I’d still rather spend the rest of my life in a frightened huddle with someone that I want to spend the rest of my life huddling with, you know?”

 

“I do. Know, that is,” he drove along the darkened roads in silence, flicking his gaze back automatically on every corner, where he could do it unnoticed. Willow looked worried, and Xander looked genuinely concerned as well as scared, but looking past the surface of that, she looked thoughtful, and he looked determined, a forceful reminder that the modern-day term _submissive_ only referred to a common sexual conception, and was nothing to do with attitude or strength or determination, “and the pair of you are welcome to join me in the library tomorrow, if you want the full story, complete with footnotes.”

 

“We’ll be there.”

 

It was Xander, who answered, and even though his voice was low, it was also a sentence that he wouldn’t consider doubting.

 

He pulled up to the address that he’d been given, and watched as the pair got out of the car, not quite hanging onto one another, but not quite apart, either. He didn’t say another word, knowing as he did so, that to do so would only have been adding to injury.

 

He pulled back onto the road, and as much as he simply wanted to put his foot down and keep on driving, until he was out of fuel, and away from this tangled mess of pathetic people, and stubborn Slayer, and a destiny that felt more like a disaster, he knew that it wasn’t a practical option.

 

No, the best thing that he could do was go back to the house and try to get some rest himself, and hope to hell that the Slayer took heed of what he had said. It would be some dark joke if she was killed his first night on the job.

 

Taking a hand off the wheel, he turned the radio on and cranked up the volume, taking a roundabout route back to the house, covering several unnecessary blocks as he did so, trying to find that space in himself that he could hit while running, or thrashing a punching bag where nothing else mattered, and no other thought passed through his head aside from taking another breath. It didn’t work; not while sitting on his ass in the driver’s seat of a car.

 

That sense of centre had never seemed further away, if he discounted that God-awful time just after falling in with Ethan. And there was another thought to make him bitter, wasn’t there? Even these days if he let himself dwell on the fact the he was trapped in this fucking situation he found his well-crafted façade of control slipping.

 

Finally he turned onto a street that would take him back to the house, and eyed a truck that was coming from the opposite direction, imagining the rush of adrenalin that it would afford him, were he to swerve onto the other side of the road at a point where it would have no option but to hit him.

 

It would be a way out, at least.

 

But it drew closer, and while he could think about the action rationally he couldn’t quite bring himself to flick the wheel. He stared into the oncoming headlights, let them blind him, and watched as it took the next corner in the rear vision mirror, trailer swinging out wide like a porcupine’s tail.

 

Slowing a little, he turned the next corner himself, and pulled up in front of the house, turning the radio up a little louder, and only shutting it off when Alice Cooper’s lyrics seemed to be mocking him personally.

 

A Quiet Room, dressed in white, would be a fucking blessing right about now.

 

He seemed to waiver between lust, an overwhelming hatred, and a numb acceptance that occasionally seemed to wrest with a completely pathetic affection which was something that he would never admit to.

 

Ripping the keys out of the ignition he slammed the car door and shoved them into the lock, trying to take out his anger on everything that couldn’t fight back. He twisted them in the lock and wrenched them out of the door, before taking a deep, controlling breath and closing it softly behind him, knowing that if Ethan were here then it wouldn’t appreciate the door being slammed.

 

And as odd, as human, as petty even, some of its likes and dislikes seemed he knew enough by now to know not to challenge it on its own turf.

 

He heard a sound from deep in the house and by the time that he’d flicked the latch down, the safety chain across and turned around it was there, again testing the air around him, the way that a dog would have.

 

“Anger, and fear,” it pushed him back against the door and its cool tongue drew along the underside of his chin over stubble that could be felt but not actually seen, “it smells good on you.”

 

Its tongue drew up the side of his neck from the collar, a track of coolness in this infernal fucking heat, and he tugged its shirt free and slipped his arms under the material, savouring the way that the chill of its back felt against the heat of his skin. Closing his eyes he dropped his head back against the solid door as tooth brushed up his neck extending to fang as it went, and a forefinger drew down under his chin and along the centre of his throat, tucking between flesh and his collar.

 

Cool breath ghosted across the suddenly dry skin of his lips and over the flesh of his cheeks which were still far too warm, and it tugged him into a kiss which was really no more than a brush of lip on lip. He deepened the kiss as his body’s natural response took over even more so than it usually would; after the time apart, as he stiffened with a rush of blood to his cock, pushing his tongue against its lips and past them into the cool depth of its mouth, finding the hard sharp point of a tooth, as it pressed against him.

 

The last time they’d had this sort of physical contact had been over a month before he’d got on that bloody plane, and he knew from past experience that it was part and parcel of more than a little of the restlessness that had been permeating his days and nights.

 

Hands grasped at his wrists and brought them up above his head and there it changed its grasp so that the two wrists were grasped in one hand, and pinned against the wood. Growling, it broke the kiss, and pressed into that hollow between shoulder and neck, breathing in the smell of the man under it. He tugged against the hold that it had on him, testing against that pre-human strength and again it growled, although this time there was more of a note of warning in it.

 

“Should have done this, reminded you of your place the minute I got here.”

 

He ignored the way that his heart-rate kicked up a few notches at the words, and at that note of possession and control that was in them. Bloody predictable; that the reaction was.

 

And then it let go of him.

 

“Upstairs. Now.”

 

He moved one foot in front of the other with some effort, and then repeated the process, paying attention to the motion until he was reasonably sure that he could walk again without the active supervision. He made it up the stairs, took three steps into the room, and then felt a hand shoving between his shoulder blades in the middle of his back, and he half-stumbled, caught his balance again, and spun to face it.

 

Automatically he spread his weight evenly over his stance, hands half raised, fists loose but still ready. In that moment, facing it down, locking gaze with its yellowed eyes he genuinely wanted to challenge it, get some of his own back. He wanted some of that dominance that it had curtailed for itself, the change of place and the control of a Slayer, a power in her own right, waking something in him that he’d thought long-dead.

 

And sensing the change in him, probably breathing it in his scent or reading it in his posture, it stopped its advance, and took a stance of its own across from him, drawn up to its full height, muscles tensed and ready as it met his glare unblinkingly, returning the challenge that it read in him.

 

He held himself, not even moving with the tiny breaths that were drawn in silently through his nose. Lips drew back from its teeth, but rather than the snarl of accepted challenge it kept its own silence, and it faced the man down, like a pair of dogs posturing before the first snap and first blood of a battle. Where his hands were fisted, its hands were spread wide, fingers hooked like claws, and both lifted almost to its shoulders.

 

The moments drew out, stretching and spiralling, and still neither of them moved or broke that deadly silence. And Rupert could feel his eyes watering.

 

That first twitch would signal the end of it, he knew that through some deep instinct that he rarely listened to.

 

After what seemed like a brief eternity he finally lowered his gaze, first concession, and it was on him in less than a heartbeat, shoving him backwards and tearing apart the silence with a rolling growl as it sunk its teeth deep into his right shoulder, instinct making it mark the man’s loss on his flesh, the bite brief as what would be another scar was added to the collection. It went from his shoulder to his throat, where it could feel the pulse racing under a layer of skin that had never seemed more delicate. This time it didn’t bite, though; simply mouthing that point, until Rupert tilted his head back, in what was a proper surrender.

 

Ethan grabbed his shirt, and with a violent motion, digging nails into his chest as it did so tore upwards, rather than doing things the conventional way, scoring four stinging tracks, white which quickly ran over with red on pale flesh, in an action that he knew was on purpose, another mark that he’d lost his challenge against it. Lowering its head, it drew its tongue along one of those strokes of warmth, and then drew away to sink its teeth into his shoulder again, a tiny distance from the first bite.

 

He forced himself to keep his hands flat against the mattress as it pulled away without supping, and a small wash of warmth inched down over muscle, a warmth that cooled quickly as it ran its tongue along another one of those fresh scratches, and then sunk its teeth into the slight rise of muscle over his nipple, flicking its cool tongue out over the sensitive rise of flesh, flinching at how odd it felt.

 

Usually, when it came to matters like this, things were straightforward, the act in itself being the end-all of it, and yet still something that he _did_ enjoy physically, unless he had done something to stir things up. Much like he had just done tonight.

 

It drew its teeth free, and he closed his eyes as warmth ran to one side, changing path slightly to run between a pair of ribs on one side, and down the other until it was tracing along the closest of the scratches that it had left. Pursing its lips, it pressed it again to the bottom of the scratch, and Rupert couldn’t stop the flinch as that cold tongue lifted skin, and again drew up his chest, marking the path with tiny little flicks of cold against heat.

 

A cool hand touched against his cock, a few brief strokes, before it slipped lower and a finger found that area of sensitive skin at that gap between his cheeks, and lightly played up and down over it, held tight against him by his jeans

 

Still he forced himself to hold still, he stared at it, at the way that the cruelly bright electric light glinted off of the dark curl of hair that was spread over its lower chest, hair that darkened as it disappeared into the dark shadow that was under its trousers.

 

As it undid the button of his jeans and pulled the zip down, removing them the more conventional way, his cock sprung into the newly loose space in the front of his boxers, the tip just peaking through the gap in the front, as it tented the clothing.

 

Its tongue played over the thin coating of curl that the blood had already dried to near the nipple that it had bitten over, moistening it, and freeing it with a sharp, almost painful tugging sensation, like it had twined it fingers through his hair and pulled at it, an action that it kept up until he gasped, and the next spot that it sunk its teeth into was the muscle of his arm, just above the mark that it had carved there when he’d been fifteen.

 

He gritted his teeth, and tried not to flinch against the blunt sensation of teeth tearing down into him, and the dull ache that quickly became a sharp pain, as this time it began to suck at the spot that it had torn open.

 

A pair of fingers; one on either side, tucked under the elastic on his boxers, and drew them down and off, ignoring them after it had slid them down past his ankles.

 

He felt naked, almost vulnerable next to it, but the sensation wasn’t an entirely bad one. Drawing a shaky breath, he raised his free hand, and twined fingers through its hair as it nursed, one thumb gently running over the tip of his cock, and circling over it, a stark contrast to the way that it had torn into him.

 

It kept its head down, and he watched as it closed its eyes, losing itself to the moment, as a finger traced down the vein on the underside of his cock, and its touch drifted over his balls, a small hint of nail over sensitive skin, just enough to send a shiver through him, rather than the tearing scratch that he was used to.

 

He’d often wondered what it; what feeding was like from the other side of things. He thought that it would probably be one of those moments of intense intimacy, like a human loosing themselves in the sensation of a kiss born of true passion, because after all, what was more intimate or personal than sharing life’s blood, and potential death with something or someone? He never saw it more at ease during its waking hours, than when it had its teeth buried in someone, after all. And even for those that did kill, where the union was temporary, it didn’t make the heat of the moments any less real did it?

 

And through it all, that confusing undercurrent; Ethan had forced him against his will, had pressed him into a life that he wanted nothing to do with. It had given him some illusion of freedom, hadn’t forced him into subservience, as some form of comfort and yet it would still strike him when he pissed it off, like he was some disobedient child that had to see the back of its hand to be shown the error of his ways. There were times when it even acted like it cared about the feeling and emotions of someone that couldn’t be any more significant to the scheme of its existence than an ant was to a man’s, and yet there was no way that something which didn’t have a soul could ever understand a concept that was as human as something like love.

 

And that, of course, was why it was easier to take this as nothing more than physical gratification, and leave it at that.

 

It lifted its head from his arm and shifted up onto its knees, tugging its shirt off over its head and undoing the button on its trousers, and pushing them down to its knees, rising slightly to draw them all the way off. It twisted slightly and cast them to the side, and Rupert caught himself staring at the pale chest that it revealed; tracing over those old, human scars and that thin, sinuous muscle, dark hair down its chest and surrounding its cock, which was already hard, and probably had been ever since it had pushed him back against the door.

 

Lifting the arm that was marked with the same brand that it had burned into him, it pressed the fingers to one side of his throat, and the thumb to the other, pushing upwards until it hit that point where he could feel every swallow at the back of his throat. It pushed his head to the side with its thumb, and then traced down the path that he knew was his jugular, in much the same way that it had traced the path of his blood flow a little earlier.

 

Speaking under its breath, it said a word that he heard as _beautiful_ , before it let go of his chin and leaned forward, burying one hand into the pillow beside his head, and lowering those cool lips to press against his. Raising a hand, he tangled fingers through its hair, and closed his eyes as it deepened the kiss, tongue pressing in between his lips in tiny little dips and darts, only just far enough to stroke against his own, slipping the other arm around its back to hold it against him.

 

It lost itself in feeding the same was that he allowed himself to be lost in the kiss, tongue pushing back against its own, enjoying the contrast of heat on chill, and that feeling of strength above him. A few years ago he had gone from telling himself that he hated it, to telling himself that he was making the best of a bad situation. Now, though, it was all about simply taking it as a sybarite pleasure, and not thinking about it at all.

 

It drew back and delivered a light, almost playful bite to the side of his throat, as the hand that wasn’t being used for support played down over his body and then lifted free, to trace a pair of cool fingers up the inside of his thigh. He raised his legs and placed them on either side of its, head dropping back as it slowly took its cue and lowered its body, pushing into his with a practised ease.

 

Muscles that were used to the action gave easily under the contact and intrusion, and moments later it was buried fully in him, a chill length as contrast against the heat that was flooding his body. He had been expecting it to mark its victory on his flesh again, but instead it moved, a slow, steady roll of its hips as it pushed him down and took him.

 

As it pushed him back down onto the mattress it lost all pretence of ease, as lust darkened its yellowed gaze, and its movements changed, becoming hard and fast and very much to the point. Rupert’s word dissolved to those few burning points, the pressure against his prostate that returned with each burning thrust, that cool hand curled around his cock, and moving it, thumb gliding over the dripping head, and that dull burn followed by an even more familiar sharp sting, as Ethan bit him properly again, this time just below that old scar that the Feralus had left him with.

 

He couldn’t think, his breath was becoming harsh and ragged, and he couldn’t, didn’t want to think beyond the moment. Another sharp tug, brief roll of pain, and he felt that shivery feeling, that moment when the world dropped away, where everything that he was, was his cock, all rolled into that moment of impending orgasm. He cried out as he felt his cock twitch and pushed himself upwards as he came over its hand and his chest.

 

As he came it buried itself in him deeply, and held its place for a few moments, hit him with another hard thrust that drove him up the bed, another which had him forgetting his own name, and then with a snarl it was coming, that burst of chill inside him telling him all that he needed to know.

 

It pulled out of him, and through the post-sex haze that was quick in settling over him he felt an almost-lazy tongue circling and running over the last bite that it had given him, and he opened his eyes to see it raising the hand that it had jacked him of with and slipping a pair of finger into its mouth, sucking on them lightly. Then, in a movement that was just as familiar as the rest of that, it tilted its head and bit itself, hard.

 

The feeling of its tongue working over him, washing its blood into the bites was lulling, although he knew that once upon a time that wouldn’t have been his first choice of words. By the time that it had finished he had drifted into a doze, and that only deepened as it settled beside him, and on instinct he rested an arm over its chest and rested his head on it shoulder, before sliding back into the waiting arms of sleep. The world could keep its fucking problems for the rest of the night.

 

It _would_ keep.

 

 


	16. Chapter 15 – Bad Omens (Black Magic)

** Chapter 15 – Bad Omens (Black Magic) **

“Every day it seems much harder telling right from wrong  
You got to read between the lines”  
-Triumph – Fight the Good Fight

 

He slept deeply, a better sleep than he’d had since coming to this fucking hellhole of a town, until the sound of the alarm dragged him from his sleep, horrid thing that it was. He wasn’t sure that he would ever get used to these bloody hours that he was being forced to live.

 

Ethan opened a single eye and watched as he went about the actions of grabbing a fresh set of clothing and heading for the bathroom, stepping into another cold shower since the day was already threatening heat again.

 

“Car?” it asked, still refusing to move as he came back out.

 

“Nah, the bike; stir up a bit of a breeze. I’ll see you later.”

 

Slowly, still blinking tired eyes, he made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen, to have a quick cup of coffee. Groaning to himself, he narrowed his eyes at the black muck that he poured into his cup.

 

All that he wanted to do was crawl back into the bed, and go back to sleep for the rest of the day. He may have changed time-zones, but one look at the sunlit sky and it seemed to spark an instinctive reaction.

 

He drained half the cup, and pre-emptively swallowed a couple of aspirin, then drained the rest and geared up.

 

There was still a good half hour to go before the first bell to summon the students rang, when he pulled up, and instantly found himself grateful that looks couldn’t kill as he lifted his helmet free and found himself face to face with a glare from the Slayer that was almost as effective as a sharpshooter’s bullet.

 

Putting the helmet down on the back of the bike, he pulled the leather jacket off and then tucked them both under one arm, offering her a smile that was probably more than a little antagonizing.

 

“Sleep well?”

 

Probably not the best move that he could have made, he amended, as she quite clearly looked like she wanted to hit him. But on the other hand, he’d spent a long time learning how to piss people off, too.

 

She made to storm past, but he caught up and fell into step beside her, “Sorry, bad habit and all that.”

 

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

 

Her voice was low and cold enough to freeze water. And maybe it would have been the more traditional option, to have sent her down into a vampire nest in the middle of the night, in the minutes after the boy had been taken but his consciousness wouldn’t have allowed it.

 

“I’m sorry about last night, too.”

 

She sped up.

 

“But like I said, it’s my job to keep you alive. And that’s something that I intend to live up to.”

 

He reached out a hand towards her, planning on slowing her or stopping her, and her hand swung up and collided with his with a crunch that he recognized, and he had to bite his own tongue to stop himself from saying exactly what it was that he really wanted to. Dislocated fingers weren’t new territory, but that still didn’t stop it from hurting like hell.

 

On the other hand, as soon as she heard that sound she froze in mid-step, and spun towards him, looking shocked, as though it wasn’t something that she had been expecting.

 

She looked mortified, which would have been amusing after all her attitude, if it hadn’t taken that level of pain to bring it about.

 

“Oh, shit. I’m… I… was that… did I…”

 

He tried to keep his expression reassuring, as he pushed the door of the library open with the hand that didn’t feel like it had just been run over, and she followed him in, looking extremely uncertain of herself.

 

“Dislocation,” gritting his teeth, he placed his hand as flat as he could force it on the top of the counter, and looked down, wincing. Two of the knuckles were back further than they should have been.

 

“There’s a cold compress, in the fridge in my office, if it’s not too much trouble.”

 

As she moved past him, careful to keep as much distance between her and him as possible he lined up the heel of his other hand with the knuckles, and shoved forward and down, hard. His mouth opened in what wanted to be a high scream, even though he managed to keep it under wraps for the most part.

 

Seconds later, as he blinked the darkness away from the edges of his vision, he felt the compress being rested against his hand. Still pulling a face, he pressed it against the throbbing area and closed his eyes in relief for a few seconds.

 

At the sound of her moving he forced them back open again and gave here a smile, abet a pained one, “So, we even now?”

 

Now the expression on her face seemed to be querying whether he was quite sane. To which the answer was more than likely a definitive _no_ although she didn’t need to know that little titbit.

 

“Are we… even?”

 

“Yes, I piss you off; you knock my joints out of place. Does that make us even? And no, I’m not going to be in a hurry to do so again, although old habits do die hard as they say. And I seem to have a habit for pissing others off.”

 

“I… yeah, I guess. You look like you’ve done that before, too.”

 

He brushed past her, and grabbed out a chest of weapons that was tucked behind the door with his good hand, straightening to nudge it in her direction with the toe of his boot.

 

“It’s a long story; as is a lot of my life. But no, it’s not the first time that I’ve had to, although I dare say I wasn’t expecting a Slayer-related injury until after I’d started working out with you.”

 

She opened the trunk, and settled on a knife that was long enough to be used for decapitation if handled in the right way, and four stakes. He noticed the silver cross glinting in the light as she leaned forward, but didn’t say a word about it, even as tempted as he was to do a mirror spell over it that would show him where it came from.

 

“Maybe one day it’s a story you’ll tell me?” he almost didn’t catch the words, muttered to the top of his trunk as they were, before she stood back up and faced him.

 

 _Not if I can ever help it,_ he thought, even as he forced a smile that felt as false as a cat’s pyjamas, “Yes, perhaps.”

 

She tucked the last stake into a pocket, as the door opened again to let the boy and the potential witch in.

 

The first thing that he noticed was that they both looked haggard, in spite of his reassurances, although he didn’t blame them. It had been three weeks after he’d first been told about vampires before he slept in anything other than drips and drabs, after all.

 

_“Yes, Rupert, everything that you’ve heard is real. They do exist, as do those other things that humanity has feared since time unknown. But people like you and I, we’re put here to help make a difference, to help tip the balance of good and evil in the favour of humanity.”_

_“But I wanna fly. Or have a shop all my own, like Mister Stevenson on the corner. Having a shop looks fun.”_

_“You’ll never have a shop. But you’ll be worth so much more than that, Rupert. People like that, they only help make life normal. But you, and what you’re going to be, you’ll help to keep the entire world turning. You’ll help keep the night separated from the day.”_

When he was old enough to consider it, he’d thought it a lot of weight to place on the shoulders of a child. Once he’d known the full extent of the story, he’d wondered just how it was that his father kept his own shoulders unbowed, knowing what he had, especially after Rupert had come into his power.

 

“Mister Giles?” Willow’s voice was soft, hesitant like that of a shy young woman with a first date. And that was a tone that he knew; since on those rare nights off that it had given him, he’d grabbed at life with everything that he had. Dating, communication, drinking, magic, the only place that the line had been drawn was sex.

 

“Yes?” He smiled at her, as encouragingly as he could. And the boy’s gaze of course went to the tip of the last stake which was showing out of one of Buffy’s pockets.

 

“I’m… I think Xander was right. I’m not entirely sure that sleeping still works, when you know what’s waiting.”

 

Xander spoke up before he could answer, “So, that’s what it takes; stakes? Well load me up then, Library-Man. When do we move out?”

 

He scowled at that. _Library-Man,_ of all the things that he could have been dubbed; and then of course, there was the other factor, besides the hot-headed bravery of youth. The chance was there that if the boy went underground then he wouldn’t be coming back aboveground. If a vampire caught that scent and recognized it, then there were very few that recognized the boundary of age, and more than likely a fair few that would do what they wanted either for the sport of it, or to send that enthralling scent into overdrive.

 

He wanted to give the boy a taste of the youth that he ought to have a chance to enjoy, before circumstances ripped it from him. He wanted this young innocent to see some fragment of something that he’d never had.

 

“There’s no _we_ about it at all, I’m afraid. Buffy is the Slayer, she’s the one going underground, not the two of you.”

 

Xander’s face fell at that, “But that’s Jessie. He’d been my best friend since I was seven. I’ve got to be a part of it; I’ve got to be there for him, when he comes back out.”

 

Buffy shot him a look that he found himself whole-heartedly agreeing with.

 

“I’m sorry, but she’ll have a better chance at getting him out if she goes on her own. If you tried to go underground, then you’d be risking your own life, as well as hurting her chances and those of your friend. If you want to help, then you’d be better off helping me here with research. I’ve recently heard mention of this affair called a Harvest that I need to look into. And even if the two of you did want to help, then there are a lot of basic facts that you’d be better off knowing first.”

 

She looked grateful as she slipped out.

 

If he could pinpoint a few basic facts, then he could always hit Ethan up later too, see if it knew anything. Which was rather likely, considering that it had been around the block a few times.

 

He noticed a flick of something that he didn’t quite recognize passing over the boy’s face, before he shook his head, and turned away.

 

“Sorry, but me and research are like two things that don’t go well together. Like… like oil and some other non-soluble thing. And if I’m going to have to have my nose in a book, then I’d rather be doing it for the grade that can get me out of here.”

 

Willow, on the other hand pulled out a book from the shelf-space that he’d indicated, those which held details on the older rites and rituals of the Old Ones. He didn’t wonder at the boy’s behaviour, as he thought that he understood it. His life had been turned on its ass with the discovery that vampires were real, so he sympathised with Xander’s desire to try and forget everything and crawl back into one of those tiny spaces that had been left by the shadows in the now empty crawl-spaces in his life.

 

Willow stayed, reading, until the bell went for second period, gave him a promise that she would be back after her last class, and he gave her a note to stop her from getting into trouble.

 

As the girl left, he was alone with his own thoughts once again. Restlessly he shifted about the library, first trying to focus on a spot of shelving, and then going back to the books when that didn’t work, as first one hour dragged by, and another followed in its footsteps.

 

He was just beginning to take the words in again, when the door opened and the Slayer came in, with the boy, looking even more shaken then he had done last night, at her side. Realising that he’d slipped out to go with her he felt a wash of anger at the boy’s stubbornness, which he managed to rein in as he reminded himself that the boy didn’t know _why_ he’d told him not to. And he wasn’t planning on saying anything, because if he did then he would probably never step outside again.

 

“How did it go?” he asked hesitatingly, “did you find him?”

 

He saw the agony in the boy’s expression and knew that it was going to be one of two answers.

 

“We found him,” the Slayer answered, “and they found us. It was a trap; they must have turned him some time last night.”

 

At that he had to fight to keep the world from dissolving into that one word, digging his fingernails into the palm of his still-throbbing hand until he felt an almost-familiar sting of pain that meant he’d dug through the skin. _Turned_ was a frighting term indeed.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

He even meant it, as she looked at him like she wanted to yell at him some more. He could even imagine the words, a stark statement of the fact that they didn’t know exactly when he had been turned, that if she’d plunged headlong into danger when she’d wanted to last night then he may have been saved.

 

And still, the boy just looked miserable.

 

She kept to business, although he wasn’t sure who it was meant to be a reassurance to.

 

“So, have you turned up anything on this Harvest thingy?”

 

“Not yet I’m afraid, but I’ve another avenue to traverse tonight which may yet turn something up.”

 

“Tonight? Why the hell tonight? If this thing’s maybe time-important, then can we risk waiting? I mean, it’s not like the library’s doing a thriving trade, unless it’s with invisible people.”

 

“We don’t have a choice about waiting,” he bit back on his natural urge which was to snap at her, “the friend that I’m to ask keeps to his own hours. And I can’t simply walk off the job, much though I may desire it. The best thing that the two of you can do is go to class for the rest of the day. I’ll keep trudging through the books, and I’ve already enlisted your Willow to come back after her last class as well.”

 

The Slayer almost seemed like she was going to hang back, but at the last moment changed her mind, hurrying out of the room as the door still swung back and forth in the wake of the boy’s departure.

 

All that the books achieved was to give him a headache. He may as well have been trying to transfer the knowledge to himself via the method of bashing himself repeatedly over the head with one of the heavier tomes. And when the final bell rung he found himself feeling a kind of desperate gratitude as the three teenagers came back in.

 

He set out a couple of books that were in English, at least, and endured his Slayer’s not-quite-as-cold, yet still silent greeting as he tugged on his leather, and headed out of the school, saying only that he would be back shortly. The question was, of course, whether Ethan would be at home, resting, or whether it was exploring the underground itself.

 

And he knew that he could have rung, but conversations tended to go better face to face.

 

The bike sung to him, whispering her sweet, mindless tune as he twisted the throttle, and took a corner too low for practicality, loving that feeling of danger and freedom, and holding his own life in his own hands, in the only moment that it really seemed to be his life; his to throw away, his to thrive in the midst of and his to risk or cherish as he saw fit.

 

He could still remember the first time that he’d rode, the thrill of it, coupled with that temporary feeling that he was his own man again, something that he’d missed so sorely that there were moments when he ached for it. His life had started out as the Council’s, and then it had morphed to his own when he’d first hit the street. After that, of course it had become Ethan’s and now it was a strange mockery; its, as well asthe Slayer’s. The bike gave him something that he’d never had a chance to take for granted.

 

He didn’t bother to remove anything other than the helmet, as he let himself into the house, and headed up the dark stairs, relying on senses other than sight to guide him.

 

It was lying on the bed, completely still, as per usual when it was on its own, and the relaxation that he could see in its body told him that it was actually sleeping, or whatever else it was that it did instead.

 

“Ethan.”

 

He raised his voice, as he kicked the leg of the bed, then took a couple of quick steps back, and the response was instantaneous as it morphed fully before it was completely awake, and when it opened its eyes he was staring at the glare of a startled predator, lip dropped back from tooth. It stared at him for a few seconds, before he watched as a slow recognition almost seemed to ease onto its face and it morphed back to human.

 

“I’ll assume there’s a reason that you’re waking me before sunset.”

 

“What do you know of the Harvest?”

 

_He grinned at the young woman that he’d chosen out of the pathetic bunch that he’d managed to somehow draw to him, like he was a shepherd to the pathetic and needy. A few years ago he’d had both kin and servants under him, but since that spot of trouble a few years back, in London, 1666, when he’d been trying to commune with a God and had sparked off that bloody fire which had managed to take a good three quarters of his already small band with him, his luck had gone from bad to worse._

_It had been Chaos in its finest moment, but now he only had three with him, which was… risky, to say the least. Dee had been with him for a few years before the fire, had come to him out of the shadows as a young woman of seventeen, terrified of the possibility of her own death at the hands of something like him._

_She had asked him for protection, and in return he had taken her life and granted her one of his own doing. To have a turned Potential Slayer at his side was a sweet feeling of triumph._

_She was powerful, and she seemed to radiate it. Her skin was covered in a fine mask of dust, eyes that were normally a dark brown were yellowed, and a darker spot just to the left of her mouth was blood that had dried there several days ago. He blond hair was matted in spots and looked as though it had been teased in others, and gave the illusion that she had a mane around her head. And she was shivering, a constant barely restrained energy running through her, holding her constantly on the edge._

_She was good company; interesting, to say the least. It was simply a shame that the act of blooding her had driven her mad. It would be a shame to see her dead, but all of the mad succumbed eventually. He would simply have to take what he could out of it in the mean-time._

_Lifting his other hand he brushed aside a few of those wild strands of hair, and met her eyes._

_“Paige, you understand what I wish of you?”_

_“Yes. Oh, yes. The power sings it,” her voice was faint, barely a whisper, and certainly not one that a human would have heard._

_He raised his hand, and bit the back of his own wrist, dipping his fingers to the blood, to trace a mark that was even older than he was, onto her forehead._

_“You will help to give me back what I lost during that infernal spell. Any life that you take tonight will go to me.”_

_He could see, by the way that nothing changed in her gaze, that she hadn’t taken in a single word that he’d uttered, that the thought of the kill was all that she held in her pretty little head. Smiling, indulgently, he took half a step towards her, and kissed her hungrily, shoving his tongue deep into her mouth, more like he was invading than kissing, and she responded by chasing his tongue back into his mouth, as he raised a hand and toyed a single small nipple into hardness. Then one of her teeth caught him, and that hunger, that permeating thirst flooded back into her expression._

_Chuckling to himself he let her go, and stepped back, releasing her._

_“Go and kill my little falcon. And then come back to me.”_

_“Always,” her voice still didn’t raise any louder._

_His grin grew more savage, as she turned her back. He was going to enjoy this. And even though it would be shame to lose her company, the vessel of power simply couldn’t survive. If she hunted and returned, as the spell that he had woven around her would urge her to do, then the only remaining outcome would be for him to end her existence permanently. After all, the transfer wasn’t complete, wasn’t permanent, until the vessel had been drained of every drop of stolen blood. And as much fun as she was to have around, she was still a liability._

_He would make her second death good for her, but this time it would be a permanent one._

“Enough.”

 

He had seen its eyes darken with a memory, could tell by that fleeting expression which came over its face, even though it was gone seconds later, that it was a fond one.

 

“Well? Do you mind?”

 

It made an obvious effort to drag itself back into the present.

 

“There are two different times when the term is invoked. The first is a simple slaughter, take as much life as possible and revel in the rush of it. A few of the more foolish have killed themselves that way; taken too many lives and lost themselves in it. Not too difficult for the sun to rise, unnoticed, when you’re out of it on the rush of blood and life. And the other is an old ritual. Time-specific, situation-specific, crafted for the more powerful of us to gain strength. Or regain it, as the case may be.”

 

“Time-specific, you say.”

 

It tilted its head slightly to one side, “These things always are. And time-specific in both senses of the word, has to start at the right time, and be done before the sun rises.”

 

“Thanks,” he spoke grudgingly, and its smile widened.

 

“If yo wanted a hand I could always tap the spell, re-direct the energy. It wouldn’t be too hard, not once it’s started.”

 

He narrowed his eyes at it; bit back the desire to hit out at it, in much the same way that it would have done so to him, if he’d said something quite that seemingly stupid. That just didn’t work.

 

“Thanks, but I’m going to be trying to prevent a slaughter, not encourage one.”

 

Its expression changed, became mocking, a note of which carried through to its words.

 

“Good luck,” those two words were dripping with a sarcasm which dried as it spoke again, “and you may want to see if you can get a name, too. Might come in handy later on, you know.”

 


	17. Chapter 16 – Victory (Changes and Development)

** Chapter 16 – Victory (Changes and Development) **

“There’s a place I like to hide  
A doorway that I run through in the night”  
-Queensryche – Silent Lucidity

****

_Back to the library, this time in the car because of the weapons that he had tucked into the trunk. If he wasn’t going to be able to talk the two civilians out of coming along, something that he very much doubted at this stage, having seen the determination of both of them, then he was certainly going to send them in armed to the teeth. Well, with weapons that they should be able handle, anyway, he amended._

_One look was enough to stop them from questioning, when he ordered them out to the car. And for the first time since he’d met her, the Slayer seemed to recognize him as a fighter, not some hide-bound book-wielder._

_The four of them settled into the car, the Slayer beside him and the other two in the back, and he spoke to them, keeping his tone clipped, in the style of ordering._

_“It’s a massacre that we’re preventing. Harvest is an ancient ritual, to gather energy through one source and re-direct it to another. In this case the energy source is blood, and a lot of it.”_

_He flicked his glance sideways, towards the Slayer, who nodded._

_“Buffy, I want you to engage the vessel. You’ll recognize it two ways, a symbol on its forehead, and the fact that it’ll be the one that the others rush to protect,” he gave a brief smile, hoped that it came across as teasing, “and as for the rest of us, our focus in to get in and get out as many people as we can. This isn’t some game, children. There are real lives in your hands, tonight, people who will be panicked, frightened, and will look toward anyone who appears to be carrying authority. It should be easy enough to direct them once we get the first few out, since sheep like to follow a leader, but getting those first few out will present the challenge.”_

_“Giles,” Xander’s voice was hesitant, and he spoke again, cutting the boy off._

_“You will probably have to fight, but keep it brief if it comes to it. You’d be better served by avoiding the situation. I don’t want either of you purposely seeking to engage something that will hand your heads back to you on a silver platter. Am I clear?”_

_The pair nodded, and as he pulled into the alleyway near the Bronze he saw understanding dawning on Willow’s face. He handed out stakes and crosses and holy water, and made sure that his favourite long-bladed flick-knife was in his pocket although it was more likely that anything which succumbed to him tonight would fall to magical rather than physical means._

_For a few moments he considered giving the Slayer a sword, but while he knew that instinct could, to a point, cover gaps in knowledge, it was another lesson Ethan had driven home time and again, that an unfamiliar weapon belonged to your enemy just as much as one that you couldn’t keep control of did. That would have to wait until he was confident that she could handle herself._

_He stepped out of the car, still wearing that leather like a biker’s mockery of armour, and with a single gesture and word knocked the door off its hinges, announcing their presence to the crowd which was gathered en masse, and was met by the stench of fear and blood inside, as he focused on causing enough confusion so that the Slayer could approach unnoticed, while the other two headed into the crowd and he lost them._

_Then his world became nothing more than the fight, dissolving down to that primal struggle to keep himself alive and moving, on the attack, keeping them off-centre, and doing everything that he could to stop them from organizing a defensive. His knife, at his side like it always was, was discouragement for anything that got through his defences, and while blows were landed none ever survived ling enough to do so a second time. At some point he realised that the crowd was thinning, that Willow and Xander were obviously taking care of the task that he’d given them, and as he threw a ball of fire at one in front of him he caught a glimpse of Xander standing toe to toe with Jessie, and the Slayer, moving in that ancient dance of battle, on a stage set for a fight of survival, looking just as comfortable with it as though she’d been born to the battle._

_The way that she moved, it took his breath away, and he found himself wondering how it was that she ever could have considered denouncing her birthright, shoving aside a memory of Ethan telling him that he had been born to that balance of magic which he wielded._

_And then he was rewarded for that brief moment of distraction as he took a blow to his side that he wouldn’t feel until the adrenalin began to drain, and the next glimpse that he had of the world outside of his own was when a window shattered and seconds later the vampires that were still standing all turned their attention to the stage, where the Slayer was standing, dust drifting to the floor in front of her, highlighted by the yellow light like some warrior angel lit from fire below._

_She fixed the rest of them with a look, and they bolted for the gap where the door had stood. For a few precious moments he felt like he was a part of her triumph, as she met his gaze, and then he looked around for other two. Willow was holding herself a little stiffly, and Xander looked like he was in some form of quiet shock, dust in his hair and on his clothes, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that it was the remnants of Jessie._

_He wondered about the exact circumstances, whether the boy had perhaps lost someone that had been on the way to becoming more than a friend, something which that almost desperate look in his eyes told him was quite possible, and then the Slayer dismounted from the stage with a rather impressive handspring, and stepped towards them._

_“You guys alright?”_

_Willow nodded slowly, but the boy didn’t respond. And Rupert had to remind himself that it was time that best healed wounds._

“I know I said that you were welcome to forge your own identity to a point, but that uniform is something that I wouldn’t expect to see on Pay-Per-View.”

 

She had eased up on his a little since the night where they had stopped the entire Bronze from becoming dinner, and he had started training with her, too, enjoying that old rush of adrenalin which came from even a mock-fight, as his life became something that was hers.

 

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.”

 

“It’s reprehensible, is what it is.”

 

“Says the rebel bad-boy-come-biker.”

 

Sighing, he threw up a hand, “Oh, whatever. Have at it, satisfy yourself, but I’ll have you know that if it interferes with your work then let me tell you right now, I’ll have you running laps.”

 

“Now that’s a low blow.”

 

“That’s your opinion of things.”

 

Her expression became serious for a moment, “And it’s not just about satisfying myself, you know. It’s about having a part of what I was before. In my old school I was a cheerleader, and Spring Fling Queen, and a cheerleader again, and I was popular. And as vain as it may sound to someone like you; who seems like he threw off every form of conformity that’s ever existed when he went after his own life, losing that sucked big-time. Here, I’ve had to rebuild everything from the ground up, and it’d be nice to have some of the old, you know?”

 

Again, she was surprising him with a depth that he hadn’t expected.

 

“I… I do understand, actually,” he smiled at her, and didn’t try to keep that tiny hint off affection which had been developing out of it, “you have no idea the number of times I’ve wished that I could get back what I lost.”

 

“What do you mean what you lost? Are you meaning like, when you became a Watcher or something? Did they chuck you on an advanced training plan or whatever?”

 

“Another story for another time,” he kept his tone of voice as mild as he possibly could, free from the bitterness that tainted the thought itself.

 

“It’s always another story for another time, though.”

 

“And I will tell you. But not until I think you’re ready to hear it. Besides, which, don’t you have that infernal bloody cat-fight which the more learned circle calls tryouts, to get to?”

 

She glanced at her watch, and he watched the play of emotion over her face, not without some amusement as she bolted for the door.

 

“Oh, crap, I’m gonna be late.”

 

He stared, until the circular window cut her off from view, and then shook his head. He knew that it was pointless, to get attached to her, when in all likelihood she probably wasn’t going to last much longer than a fry in a trout-tank, but it wasn’t something that he seemed to be able to help. The more time that he spent with her, the more _right_ this felt, in spite of his preliminary fears, about how this was going to go.

 

This was meant to be his life, serving alongside the Slayer that he had been called to, and the thought that she wasn’t going to survive this was something that kept him awake long after his body urged him to lie down and rest.

 

Ethan, for the most part, seemed to be keeping to itself; nights spent exploring the tunnel network and doing the gods knew what else, and rarely coming back before he’d left for the school. And when it did get back before dusk, it was almost like it was itching to get back out, although he had no idea why. At a guess he would have said it was something to do with the Hellmouth’s energies, but he wouldn’t have bet on it.

 

He poured himself a cup of tea, and sat back to wait. There were no disasters due, aside from the bottleneck that would possibly be caused by an alarming number of young men in the hallway outside the gym, but that wasn’t something that required hands on action.

 

So when he felt the bite of magic, set out from the usual constant back-ground energy of the place he was surprised. He wasn’t, on the other hand one little bit surprised when Buffy came back in, and her explanation fell over itself, of a girl who had caught fire.

 

Holding up a hand, he stopped her, so that he could get a word in edgeways, “It was of magical origin, I felt that much. Did you see anyone looking at the unfortunate young woman, perhaps muttering something? That sort of a spell usually requires focus on the victim, a focus that someone wouldn’t have been able to achieve outside of visual contact.”

 

“Well, duh. It was a tryout, Giles; everyone was looking at her like they wanted her to break a leg.”

 

“She was that good?”

 

“I’ll say. She just about could have done back-flips around me.”

 

At the mental image of that, he smirked.

 

“Okay, so maybe not quite,” she amended, “but she was good. And the point still stands, that trying to pick up on extra malice in that place is like trying to pick a spine out of a hedgehog.”

 

“Yes, I do get your point. I suppose this hasn’t put you off your desire to make the team?”

 

She looked at him like he was mad.

 

“Fine, if you make the team you can put it to good use. Be sure to use your position to get close to the other girls. See if there’s been anyone acting suspicious or overly antagonistic towards them.”

 

“And again, I point out the fact that they’re cheerleaders. Any girl who isn’t on the team has adequate reasons to want them dead.”

 

“Are you entirely sure that you want a hobby which is quite so dangerous?” he teased.

 

“Yep. Because I’m sure that after it’s all said and done the Slaying will be a breeze.”

 

He chuckled, “There is that, I suppose.”

 

“Was there anything else, then?”

 

He looked at her, thinking it all over. There was research to be done, of course, but that would probably go quicker if he was to do it on his own. It hadn’t taken him long to come to the conclusion that, as intelligent as she was, she wasn’t really a particularly bookish person.

 

And she looked like she wanted him to say no.

 

“Did you have plans for tonight?”

 

“Depends. If I said yes would you get all British and glarey?”

 

“Glarey is hardly a word, and if you ever use it again in my presence I shall certainly invent a meaning for it, and it won’t be one that you’re going to like. And have I ever done so before?”

 

She frowned like she was actually considering it, before she answered, “No, not really. But sometimes you get this funny look in your eyes, like you wish you could make me think twice before I talk, or something. Anyway, back to the topic at hand.”

 

“Yes, back to that, you never gave me an answer.”

 

“Yes?” it was meant to come out as a statement he assumed, but it sounded more like a question.

 

“No. There’s nothing here that I can’t take care of myself.”

 

“Hey, thanks,” she favoured him with a rare smile, and he returned it as she left.

 

Again, as most of the days were prone to doing, this one dragged past, after the excitement, as he looked for an appropriate spell to trace the magic back to the source, something that wouldn’t disrupt things or alert the caster if they tried something again, which was almost guaranteed to happen in his opinion.

 

When he finally left the silent building, it was dark, as it usually was, and he decided that he didn’t feel like going straight back to the house which was probably standing empty, if Ethan had decided to stick to the pattern of the last few weeks.

 

As usual, the bike and the illusion of freedom called to him, but he didn’t really want that, either. Quietly, standing, leaning against the bike he questioned himself and tried to work it out. Then he decided that a few beers at the nearest bar would be as good a place as any to start.

 

Swinging a leg over, he kicked the stand up and gunned the bike, pulling out of the parking lot with as much speed as he could give it in the small space. Parking the bike in the shadows, and strapping the helmet to the back, he was just about to the door of the pub, when he caught something out of the corner of his eye.

 

He turned towards it, to make sue that he was seeing what he was seeing, and frowned to himself. His Slayer was standing on the street, talking to someone who was older; a lot older, if the absentee life force was anything to go by. Although there was something that was off about him…or _it_ , never the less.

 

And damn it, she had spotted him staring.

 

Forcing a false smile, he nodded towards the pair of them, making a mental note to ask her why she was hanging about with a vampire tomorrow morning.

 

“Good evening.”

 

And now she was gesturing him over

 

“Giles, this is Angel, the guy who I was telling you about. The one who first mentioned that Harvest thing to me. Angle, Giles. A friend of mine.”

 

She sounded like a girl, sounding off to her paramour, which was ironically amusing to a point. It extended a hand, but he didn’t take it, simply looking it up and down. Then out of curiosity as to what it would say in return, he spoke.

 

“So, how did you find out about the Harvest in the first place?”

 

Its voice was low and deep as it replied, with a shrug, “You could say I’ve been around a while. There’s not much I haven’t seen.”

 

 _So, not only a vampire, but a conceited one at that;_ although in saying that he was yet to run into one that didn’t think, at least half the time, that it was worth ten times more than it actually was. Even Ethan had its moments.

 

“Yes, I’d say that you probably have. By a while, were you meaning a few decades, or a few centuries?”

 

The Slayer looked startled, as she looked at him, “What are you talking about?” then she twisted towards the vampire who’s shadow she was standing in, “Angel, what’s that meant to mean?”

 

He spoke before it had a chance to, “What I mean, is that _this_ friend of your is a vampire. There’s something that’s slightly off about it, but there is no doubt that it has been turned.”

 

The expression in its eyes became calculating, “Not all that surprised you can tell, what with that scent that’s hanging you like a cloud following a wet week. And you call me _it_. That’s real polite of you.”

 

“I do what I do,” he replied, coolly.

 

Buffy frowned, “And what do you mean by something _off?_ How can something be _off_ with a vampire, in the first place?”

 

“It… it’s like a feeling. Or a fragment of a feeling, that something’s out of place, or something that isn’t meant to be, is.”

 

It raised an eyebrow, “You can _feel_ subtleties? It really has been a long time, then.”

 

And now it was him, that her attention was focused on, “What’s been a long time?”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” he brushed her question off, and looked squarely at Angle, “so, are you going to tell me exactly what this _subtlety_ of yours is?”

 

He saw something, some hint of distant pain in its gaze.

 

“It’s a soul.”

 

He could tell that it didn’t expect him to believe it, so in order to keep Buffy from thinking too deeply into what it had said about him, he nodded at it, “Is it a curse, drawn back to the flesh afterwards, or is it a binding?”

 

“What do you mean, is it a curse or a binding? It’s always a curse, isn’t it; to have done the things that the monster has done, and have a clear memory of it, tied alongside guilt for things that can never be altered?”

 

“You… you… you’re a vampire with a soul?” she began to laugh, a sound tinged with hysteria, “you’ve gotta be kidding me. That’s… well, it’s impossible, for starters.”

 

“No,” Rupert planed a hand on her shoulder, trying to ground her again, “it’s just extremely rare, and extremely difficult to do, especially as the former. The… the level of power that such a thing would take, even the thought of it is incredible.”

 

“Gypsies. Traditional power, inherited.”

 

“Yes, that would make sense. You must have done something that was very upsetting, for them to take such a dark revenge.”

 

It looked at the Slayer, who had moved a little more towards him, seeking some reassurance, or something of the like, and took a breath, seemingly to steel itself, “I killed a favourite daughter of the clan, in 1898. And they gave me a parting gift.”

 

“Seventy-nine years,” Rupert breathed, impressed in spite of himself, “that’s quite a feat, when I wouldn’t have expected a cursed one to last longer than a few years, with the suffering that such a thing would have brought.”

 

“It felt too selfish, to kill myself.”

 

It felt like they had come to an impasse. And that feeling was only affirmed, when it reached towards her, and she stepped back, again that little bit closer to her Watcher. Stepping in front of her, he crossed his arm, knowing that if it had been a regular man, then it would have thought twice about trying to get past him.

 

“If I was in your shoes, mate, then I’d be stepping back to give her a little time to process.”

 

The way that it looked at him, he could still see a touch of the predator in it, that it didn’t like being told what to do, but it was… subdued. And he would have loved some proper time to study this, but at the moment Buffy was the more pressing concern. It didn’t respond, and with a little pressure, a guiding hand on her shoulder he drew her away, and into the mouth of the alleyway where he’d parked the bike. It seemed as though he wasn’t going to be getting that drink after all. Or not any time soon, at least.

 

“You comfortable riding pillion, luv?”

 

“Pillion? You brought a horse into town?”

 

Grateful for the darkness, he rolled his eyes at it, “Pillion means passenger. Will you be comfortable riding behind me? Always got a spare helmet and I know well enough what I’m doing.”

 

“You’re asking me to go on the bike behind you?”

 

“Thought we cleared that up, already. Although I suppose I could be a proper gent and walk you, then come back for the bike. Come to think of it, there’s as good an excuse as any to still make it into the bar, too.”

 

She looked at him, trying to figure out if he was being serious.

 

“That is assuming you want to go back home, anyway.”

 

“And if I didn’t?”

 

“Would invite you back to mine, introduce you to the delights of underage drinking, but I’m not set up for company. You Americans like coffee though, don’t you? There’s a café that’s open late, about ten minutes from here, over the good side of town. I could always get you a coffee, or whatever other junk you wanted.”

 

Even as he extended the hand of friendship, he cursed himself for a fool. It would all be over, tears before bed-time, and no-one to blame but himself for the hole that would be left in his life.

 

“Sounds good.”

 

He took the spare helmet off the back, as well as his own, and made sure that it was on her properly, before pulling his own on, and straddling the bike, glancing back towards her, “Right. Legs up, and hold on to me. Don’t break my ribs, and I won’t do anything fancy, how does that sound to you?”

 

She nodded, lifted her feet clear of the ground, and he felt her grasp him through the leather. Throttling the ignition he kicked up the stand, and coasted onto the road.

 

He revved a little, gave it just enough speed that the lights danced past in streaky flashed, and turned a ten-minute ride into seven, when he usually would have done it in four on a good day, or five on a bad one. She waited until he’d kicked the stand down again before she swung herself off, and as she removed the helmet he saw a broad grin on her face, and excitement lighting her eyes.

 

Removing his own helmet he took back the one that he’d given her, and put them both back in place.

 

“Nothing quite like it, is there?”

 

“Do you ever get used to that rush?”

 

“I’m still waiting for the day,” he patted the bike fondly on the leather seat, “to me this is freedom, Buffy; the one place where nothing can tie me down, or restrain me.”

 

He led her into the café, and stood to the side, letting her chose a table, “Pretty deep, for a rebel without a cause,” she teased, lightly.

 

“And don’t I know it, luv? I just love to shock the shit out of the rest of the hoods, doll,” he let a touch of London cockney bleed through, as he grinned at her in turn.

 

She laughed, as she chose a seat that was towards the back of the place, “Okay, so I brought that one on myself.”

 

He dropped the accent, as he ordered a cup of coffee for her and a beer for himself, the other reason that he had chosen this place, and took the seat across from her, “Yes, you did rather. So was there anything in particular that you wanted to discuss? Or did you really just want a chance to empty my pockets?”

 

He could practically see the cogs turning as she tried to sort her thoughts out, and work out where to start. Then she obviously decided to go for something that must have looked easy from where she was standing.

 

“I want to know about you. How exactly did you know what he was? And why do you always call vampires _it_?”

 

“I knew what it was, because I’ve had a lifetime worth of practice at spotting vampires, no matter what mask they wear. And I was raised to think of vampires as the… as the monsters that are lurking under that human skin, not the façade that they present to the majority of the world’s populace. The demonic are not male or female as human standards go; they are a race unto themselves. And vampires, in particular, are hybrids, a pervasion of human and demonic blood, so they fit the original definition of _it_ even better. It’s also a lot easier to separate yourself from your target, less damaging to the ego if you no longer think of them as the humans that they used to be.”

 

The beer and coffee were brought over to the table, and he took a large mouthful, as she sorted out her next question, “And that crack about the way that you smell?”

 

He’d been hoping that that one hadn’t registered, in light of everything that it had been surrounded by.  Keeping his expression schooled, he shrugged, “Old books, and old magic. I’ve lived a lifetime surrounded by both, so is it really any wonder that I smell like it?”

 

It wasn’t really a lie, not if one looked at the technicalities. And he was still glad for it, when she accepted it at face value.

 

“How long have you known that you were going to be a Watcher?”

 

“I was ten when my father first told me. The Giles family have had ties to the Watcher’s Council for generations.”

 

“Must have taken a lot of the mystery out of it, knowing that your future was set out before you.”

 

“I despised it.”

 

She looked pointedly at his leather jacket, that he had declined to remove, “Yeah, I kind of noticed that one. So if you hated it so much, then why did you come back to it? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad that you did, but why?”

 

He drained the rest of his beer, and gestured for another, as she was still only halfway through her coffee.

 

“Because some things are written, and others aren’t. When it came down to it, I could escape for a short while, but my destiny was still just that; my destiny. In the end I wasn’t given a choice about returning to the fold, because it was what I had to do.”

 

She looked down at her drink, and he thought he saw a flash of pain dart fleet-footed across her face. When she spoke again, her voice was hesitant.

 

“How can you not despise me, with all of that?”

 

“Chaos’ sake, Buffy. You weren’t the one that forced my hand. And I’d rather lose my life tomorrow, than have lived free without knowing you. You’re the one thing in my joke of a life that feels as though it makes any sense at all. You’ve made what I’ve gone through worth-while,” he took a fresh mouthful of his new drink, “and that’s not just the beer talking.”

 

He was frightening himself. He knew that he was telling her nothing but the truth, and he had no idea what level of hell losing her was going to send him into. He forced himself to continue while he still had it in him, speaking from his heart.

 

“My life, at many stages, has been nothing short of hell, dear girl. And frankly, I hope that you never have cause to know even a quarter of the finer points. But working with you, it feels like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. And that’s something which I’m almost obscenely grateful for. To help you make a difference to the world makes me feel like I’m finally doing something that I have a right to be proud of.”

 

He felt her gaze on him, almost like she was studying him.

 

“You… you actually mean that don’t you? You mean exactly what you’re saying.”

 

“Chaos’ sake, I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

 

She raised an eyebrow at him, and she finished off the last of her coffee, “Seriously, Chaos’ sake?”

 

“Shall I start carrying around a set of business cars which reinforce the message that old habits tend to cling on for dear life by the tips of their fingernails? And it’s far politer than several of the other things that I could be saying, believe you me.”

 

“Yeah, for some reason I don’t doubt that,” her expression gained that teasing nature again, and she made an attempt at a cockney accent which had him struggling not to pull a face, “Them there hoods be teachin you everything that you know, I bet.”

 

He shuddered visibly, “And if you ever attempt that again, I’m afraid I shall have to make do with the best of those lessons and either gag you, or drown out everything you say with obscenely loud music.”

 

“I’ve heard worse threats, you know. Although not from anyone that could probably actually carry them out.”

 

He gulped back the last of his drink, and rose to pay for everything, with her a couple of steps behind him. She followed him back out to the bike, and then hesitated, as he held out the spare helmet to her again.

 

“You’ve just more or less sculled two pints of beer.”

 

“And I’m still steadier on my feet than any sober man that you’re likely to meet. Did you want to put it to the test?” then he winked at her, “Besides, I won’t tell if you don’t.”

 

She hesitated for another few seconds, and then straddled the bike behind him again, wrapping her arms around his chest like she had the last time. Again, he took it easy, remembering both the facts that she was new to the experience and that if he did something which was too over the top then he was liable to wind up with internal bruising.

 

Still, he took her the long way back to her place, looping out around a few unnecessary blocks, and although he didn’t gun it, he still drove faster than he technically had a right too.

 

And that grin which had returned to her face by the time he came to a stop in front of her place was more than enough of a reward for him.

 

Wishing her a good night, as she strapped the spare helmet back into place, she grinned back at him.

 

“Hey, thanks for that. I appreciate it, you know.”

 

“You’re more than welcome, Buffy.”

 

He watched, until she was safely in the house, and then pushed off again, back onto the road, and headed for a path that would take him out of town so that he could get some real speed behind him, and try to hit that place where he didn’t care about a single bloody thing.

 


	18. Chapter 17 – Fears (Truths)

** Chapter 17 – Fears (Truths) **

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours first  
Let’s compare scars I’ll tell you who’s is worse”  
-Rise Against – Swing Life Away

 

_It was well past midnight, and the half of the population that helped to keep the impression that Sunnydale was a normal little town, and not at all interesting were curled up in bed. If it weren’t for that heat, which was something that he still hadn’t gotten used to in the near three months that he’d been there then he could have almost imagined that he was back in England._

_Ethan’s silent step beside him helped to cement that illusion, too. This was the first time that he had spent any real time with it over the last while, too. After all, he hardly counted a few hours of snatched sleep next to it, here and there, and occasionally waking up a few hours before it rested as spending time. He supposed that he ought to be grateful that it was, for the most part, leaving the show to him to run, but there was a part of him that resented that, too._

_Ethan had once said that the day Rupert stopped questioning would be one hell of a day; and these days Rupert felt that same way on the matter of if he ever sorted out his feelings where the ancient was concerned._

_Or even if he simply began to, because it certainly wasn’t as simple as black and white, as clear cut as simple, straight hatred, even though he’d often wished that such a thing was a feeling that he had been able to maintain._

_Three months, and this town was still throwing up surprise after surprise out of the woodworks, too. It was almost as though he were living in the midst of a competition to see what would come out king or queen of the Hellmouth. And so far the Slayer had bested every challenge that had been thrown her way._

_He was prouder of her by the day; too, in spite of his reluctance about forming a bond with her, something that he’d known for an age couldn’t be prevented._

_There was no disaster scheduled for tonight, no threat to be wary of again, other than what natural came hand in hand with being on a Hellmouth in the middle of the night. He was wearing a white tee-shirt, and a pair of faded, favourite blue jeans, had his favourite jacket swung over his shoulder, although he doubted that he would have any need for it tonight, and the usual pair of steel-capped boots._

_Raising a lazy hand, he scratched at the old mark on his arm, and flicked his gaze sideways, towards his corporal shadow._

_“So, how would you say you’re finding things?”_

_Again he snuck another glance at it, and frowned slightly, although it was more an expression of thought that it was anything else, “It… well, it’s certainly not what I expected.”_

_“You seem to be enjoying yourself, though. More than you have been for a while.”_

_The fact that it was still keeping an eye on him, on his moods and what-not, came as more than a little bit of a surprise. He’d figured that it was too wrapped up in it own world, in whatever it was doing on those long, late nights to have actually noticed._

_“You noticed.”_

_He kept his voice even, completely free of any accusation. This was, after all, meant to be nothing more than company and a conversation._

_“Did you think I wouldn’t?”_

_“Honestly? Since coming to this bloody town, at least three quarters of the time I’m not sure what it is that I’m meant to be thinking. And I’m positive that I know less now than ever, of what’s going through that twisted bloody mind of yours. I’m not sure, even after everything that I’m still not just stumbling through the shadows, whistling at the bleedin’ dark.”_

_“You could be doing worse.”_

_Its tone was low, and he took the words as an encouragement._

_“I’m still not sure that I’m the right person for this, you know. But even if I’m not, then I wouldn’t trade it in. You… I think you’re starting to rub off on me, because I feel extremely selfish at times.”_

_The indulgence was obvious in its expression, as it stopped walking and looked at him. It still seemed strange, to have these rare moments of peace, where he couldn’t muster the anger or desire, or conviction to want to kill it any more. He supposed that any Psychologist worth their salt would have dubbed it Stockholm, but did it really matter what title it was given, when even in those moments that he had the illusion of freedom he would never achieve the reality of it?_

_Xc All that he could do, really, was go with it, and hope that there was still a part of him left in tact, come the end of this final joke that The Idiots In Charge seemed determined to make him suffer through. After all, what use was a soul, and in particular a bound one, if there wasn’t going to be enough left of –him- around the edges to support it?_

_And speaking of living out jokes, there was another one. He wished he knew which one of those thrice-damned fools had seen fit to set up Buffy’s attraction to the local vampire mope-king. After she had recovered from her shock, she had set out to show it that she didn’t care what it may have done in the past, and that all that mattered was the fact that it was battling for its own redemption these days._

_It would have been highly amusing, if not for the stark reminder of his own situation that it forced into his thoughts at strange hours. He had wondered, on occasion, whether if Ethan had started things out a different way he mightn’t have been able to scrape up some bundle of rational feeling for it. And it seemed that the Slayer and her aficionado were determined to wave the answer under his nose. After all, if someone like what she was seemed to be able to see past the fact that Angelus was a vampire then anything stood a chance, didn’t it._

Buffy looked exhausted, although he supposed it shouldn’t have been a surprise that battling living nightmares really took it out of a person. He knew how he felt, having seen several of his own worst brought to life. After that one, for the first time he had allowed himself to walk out of the job, and had taken the girl with him. For once he didn’t care about how it might have looked; after everything that they had been through today, if anyone complained then they could go hang as far as he was concerned.

 

He had asked Xander and Willow to join them as well, and take a well-earned few hours out and while the boy looked as thought he had been set to take them up on the offer Willow had said something to him that he hadn’t overheard, and they had both politely declined.

 

So, here they were, back at that old café that they always seemed to wind up in after a particularly harrowing fight, or an overly long day. More often than not, it was their entire team of four that found themselves clustered around the table, but he’d also spent time with all of them as individuals, too. They had all proved themselves to be invaluable to the cause, and he had come to appreciate both of them just as much as he did Buffy.

 

Staring at a marshmallow that was struggling to keep afloat in a sea of creamy froth she had her hands wrapped around her cup, as though to warm them, when even now it was still ridiculously warm. He’d never thought that he would miss grey clouds in the afternoon, fog in the morning, and the sound of cool rain pouring down onto the windowpane, or the feel of it on his skin.

 

But there it was; he did. And even though it really was far too early in the day to start drinking, he had his customary glass of beer in from of him, quarter gone. Damn and blast it, but he felt like he deserved a drink after what the day had thrown at him. It had shown him fears that he had tried to deny the existence of, as well as some that he’d known were there all along.

 

He took another sip of him drink, and only just stopped himself from jumping when she chased the half-vanished marshmallow around her cup leaving trails of pink through the white foam, and spoke to him.

 

“What was the worst of it for you?”

 

Letting out a slow sigh, he drained his cup to half-way, and massaged at the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. That was one question that he really didn’t want to answer, for fear of where it may lead to, but he was fairly certain that he trusted her well enough these days. And that she knew him well enough not to turn on him, if it came to that.

 

“Losing you was probably first and foremost amongst them, I’d say. And when I saw you like that, as one of them, it rather put a fear of… future possibilities into me.”

 

He had looked at that hunger in her eyes, and seen his own future laid out. Not to say that he didn’t see the same thing every time that Ethan morphed in from of him, but somehow, seeing _his_ Slayer like that had felt a lot more immediate, and unavoidable.

 

And yes, there it came. He could tell by that look in her eye, that one which he had come to recognize, which came just before a question.

 

“But… I know that it would be rough on you, not to mention rough on me, but you’d survive it. There’s got to be people back in London that would… help you out or something, wouldn’t there?”

 

Even discussing the possibility of her own death, she wasn’t flinching. He wondered, briefly, what it would be like to have that kind of self-assurance.

 

He owed her the truth, didn’t he, really? He’d told her that things were a story for another day, and it felt like another day was here, albeit a little sooner than when he’d presumed it would be.

 

Pushing the chair back from the table a little he raised the marked arm, and rested it on the table, gaze not drifting from the spot under his shirt where he knew it was. The only question was of where to start. After all, he didn’t want to bore her with some long, rambling story.

 

“Yes, I would. But it wouldn’t be for long. I’d have maybe a few weeks at the outside, if I were lucky. Or maybe that’s if I were unlucky; since I’m honestly not sure which one of the two options would be worse.”

 

“What are you talking about? Giles, you’re getting me worried here.”

 

“You remember how I mentioned a few weeks ago, that I had a particular interest in marked vampires?”

 

“Yes?” he heard the question in the word.

 

He unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve, and took another mouthful of Dutch courage, before rolling it back to his elbow, to show her the black tattoo that was nestled there, the symbol that had been a part of his life since he had been not much more than a boy. Leaning over, she stared properly at the sign that he’d made sure she had only ever caught a few, fleeting glimpses of.

 

“This is why. It’s a Keeper’s Mark, something that was… that was used by elder vampires to separate their kin, acolytes, or servants out from the rest of the flock, so to speak. Where it was placed on the body symbolised status, and it varied from Master to Master. Fell out of practise some six or seven hundred years ago, now, although it was only ever really the true elders that used it in the first place.”

 

“So, you got that ink to remind you of what you’re fighting against?” her tone sounded almost hopeful, like she wanted him to agree.

 

“If only it were that simple, dear girl. I’m sure I’ve mentioned my flight from home to you, briefly too.”

 

“You might have,” she said, with a clear _go on_ gesture.

 

“Well, to cut a long story short I managed to fall, as it were, into a rather sticky situation. I almost got myself killed, and it was only though the intervention of a vampire, for entirely its own reasons that I’m not. But the price was a rather high one, to say the least. This thing is the mark of an equal.”

 

He took another mouthful of his drink, gave her a few moments to say anything, and then started talking again.

 

“It… it wasn’t… isn’t a situation that I’ll ever break out of. The reason that I’ll have a few weeks is because it decided to let destiny take its own path, and turn me once you’re… once you’re out of the picture,” he laughed, bitterly, “so you see, as well as losing you, it’s also loosing my own life that I fear. I’m afraid I’m a fundamentally selfish creature, at heart.  And seeing you as one of them today, well that really drove it home.”

 

She looked at him with an expression that he couldn’t even being to begin to decipher.

 

He drained the rest of his drink, hating the uncomfortable silence that was hovering between them. He found himself hoping desperately that telling her hadn’t been some huge mistake, and that it wasn’t simple another expression of his own selfishness, the need to share his burden with another person.

 

He’d never realised that silence could be quite this quiet, especially when it was occupied by another.

 

And then, finally she broke it, testing the water with a tentative comment.

 

“This means that you have no right what-so-ever to say anything to me about Angel, now.”

 

Biting back the urge to say that it wasn’t nearly the same thing, because Ethan had never had a soul to risk loosing in the first place, he gave her a weak smile, the best that he could muster. A comment like that would have been worse than anything else that he could have said.

 

“Yes, you would see that as the home team’s advantage, wouldn’t you? Just… just remember what I told you. Watch yourself around it, Buffy; a curse is a curse for a reason.”

 

He watched as she turned something else over in her head.

 

“I guess that would be how you recognized what he was, then? And what that smell comment was about, too.”

 

“I did say that it was old magic. I just didn’t… specify.”

 

“Yeah, sure thing, Giles. And of course you’d let me get away with that, too.”

 

“Have I ever taken what you say at face value?” he kept that smile forced into place on his face, did what he could to keep the conversation light.

 

“No, but one day I just know you’ll slip up.”

 

“And that’s they day you can start to call me old.”

 

“How,” she raised a hand, and stared just past his eyes, focusing on a spot on the wall behind him, “how old where you when you bolted?”

 

Now there was an area that he didn’t want to go into, “Young enough to think I knew everything, old enough to think that the world spun around me, and that everything that happened was a personal affront. Does it really matter, as far as the specifics go?”

 

“Guess not,” her frown deepened, “and here I thought I’d had it hard. That, thought, what with you being what you are on top of that,” she looked genuinely upset for him, which was rather a novel thing in his experience, “that can’t have been far shy of a living Hell, I’d say.”

 

The waiter brought over another drink for him, and it didn’t take him long to drain this one as well, as he tried to figure out where to go from there.

 

“Like I told you before, life is what it is. And we deal with it the best we can. I don’t feel sorry for myself, Buffy. I’ll give you that I once did, but it’s been too long since, to stay cooped up in a bubble of misery. I… I affect things where I can, and I certainly get my own kick out of lowering the population of things that go ‘bump’ in the night, but… given time and the human condition, I fear we can adjust to any circumstance. The last thing that I want is your sympathies, Buffy.  I... if I didn’t think that you deserved to know, then believe you me, I wouldn’t be telling you.”

 

“Fine then. No sympathy from me, none what so ever.”

 

He appreciated the tone of voice, but he could see the lie in her expression. Still, if she could pretend for his sake, then he could pretend to pretend that she believed her own words. That was how this whole game worked, after all. Tell yourself the lie time and again, and hope that the cold light of day didn’t dawn to scatter it to nothing more than dust in the wind.

 

“Good. I’ll hold you to that, too. If I ever see so much as one sideways glance, then I’ll have you dusting every single one of the books in the library, and then re-shelving the lot of them.”

 

She finished off the last of her now cold mocha, and gave a mock shudder, “Oh, please, no. Anything but that, it’s cruel and unusual punishment. I’m sure that things like that were outlawed some time back in some year that I can’t remember the digits of.”

 

“Possibly, but I wouldn’t tell.”

 

Heading over to the counter, he paid as usual, and then headed back out to the car with her. As much fun as it would have been to ride the bike in the rain this morning, he hadn’t fancied the idea of spending the day dripping on the ground. Now, of course, the bloody sun had come back out to bake the leather seats, and make it possible to fry an egg on the top of the bonnet.

 

She watched, as he shook himself, and rolled up his other sleeve, and then followed up by undoing the first couple of buttons of his top, anything to try and catch a non-existent breeze.

 

“You okay?”

 

He glanced back at her, almost as though he’d forgotten that she was there for a few seconds.

 

“It’s this infernal, bloody, damned heat. I’ve hated it since the day that I got into town. I’m sure that if I’m ever pressed I’ll deny it, but I can honestly say that I miss the rain. England, now that was proper weather. Always appropriately atmospheric.”

 

“Yeah, but since this is meant to be the mouth of Hell, you could also say that’s it’s… what was it… appropriately atmospheric, that we’re living in what feels like a toaster oven.”

 

“Smartarse,” he growled letting a touch of the old accent drift into it, as he unlocked the doors and swung into the car. As she lowered herself into the seat beside him, he looked at here, waiting until she lifted her head and met his gaze.

 

“So, are we alright? You’re not going to run, screaming from me?”

 

“Yeah, we’re cool,” a half-smile played over the corner of her mouth, “actually, I’m waiting here for you to give me the warning about staking your,” her smile vanished, and she heisted over the word, “about staking him, anyway. And… thanks for trusting me.”

 

“Thank-you for giving me the chance to.”


	19. Epilogue – Prophecy (Fucking With Fate)

** Epilogue – Prophecy (Fucking With Fate) **

“All debts are paid  
At the opera tonight”  
-Repo – At The Opera Tonight

 

“Oh, do stop being stupid, Rupert. You’re entirely too sentimental these days. And you’ve known since before the day she was born, that she was stamped with an expiry date. There’s sweet fuck all that you can do about it. If she is prophesised to die, then she will do so.”

 

He spun on it, and lunged, all his anger and frustration and the pain that he was trying to hide pouring out into that one little movement. And he wasn’t overly surprised, when his lunge was intercepted in mid-flight, and he was redirected past it towards the armchair, hitting the back of it with enough force to flip it backwards, and he hit the ground painfully as it knocked the wind out of him. He hadn’t expected much else, to be honest, but it was still better than simply standing there.

 

He heard its footsteps drawing closer, and seconds later it grasped the bottom of the chair and flipped it up, without him moving a muscle.

 

“Can you blame me for being sentimental? I’m still only human, after all, or did you forget that fact? And I always knew that I was going to… going to lose her, but not like this. This, it’s too soon. She’s too young, she doesn’t… she doesn’t deserve to die. And not like that.”

 

“I thought you were past the stage where you felt that life still cared about fair, and right, and wrong. And you’ll have other things to occupy your time, once it’s over and done. You’ve done what you were meant to do, Rupert. And you’ve done it well, there’s no-one that can deny that.”

 

He bit the inside of his lip hard enough to pierce the skin and draw blood. Damned if he was going to show weakness in front of it. The last time that he had broken down in its presence, had been some twelve years ago, and he was not going to change the habits of a lifetime, not even over something this huge.

 

He glared at it, wishing that he could force some of that brutal ball of emotion that he was currently feeling onto it. This place was too tiny, he couldn’t breathe, it was stifling, and that wasn’t just because of the dry, acrid, air that he had still yet to adjust to. He couldn’t stay here, not with this monster which was saying that he may as well lie down and let The Idiots in Charge run over him like he was a sick dog in the middle of a busy road.

 

He stood and knocked aside the hand that reached out for him with as much force as he could put into the movement. His voice was low and deadly, as he drew himself up to his full height, even though he knew that he was more amusing than intimidating to it, “Don’t you dare lay those dirty fucking hands on me. Not again, not ever,” he made sure that the hatred he was currently feeling was evident in every word, “I despise you, and everything that you are. I may have no fucking choice about living with you if I want to survive, but my own death would be more preferable to me then watching hers.”

 

He stepped around it, because as much as he wanted to shoulder past it, he knew from past experience that such a thing wouldn’t work. Reaching the door, he drew back the latch, and tugged at a doorhandle that wouldn’t turn. Looking over his shoulder, he narrowed his eyes calling his power to the tips of fingers, so that it sparked across the flesh in small, stinging jolts, looking like lightning.

 

“Let me out of here, or I’ll tear this fucking place down around our ears.”

 

It looked at him calmly, not returning a fragment of any of his rage, something else that threatened to send him further out of control. Gods, but at least if it took the fucking bait, then he would have a reason to go on the offensive again. Yeah, sure it would thrash him, but it would hardly have been the first time. And then, at least he would be feeling a little more like he thought it was that he should have felt.

 

Instead, with a gesture, and a word of Latin, it opened the door for him. Narrowing his eyes at it further, he twisted away from it again, and stormed out through the gap that it had given him to leave by.

 

Spinning, he slammed the door, taking some satisfaction from the fact that if the window in it wasn’t spelled then it would have shattered. Grabbing his helmet off the back of the bike, he swung himself onto it, and fired it up, gunning it down the black road, not bothering to flick the headlights on.

 

Tonight it wasn’t about escape; it was about getting there fast enough to try to save someone that he cared for.

 

He didn’t care that he was probably going to face his own death, as well. He found it hard to care about anything past getting there in one piece.

 

He hadn’t been lying to it, when he’d said that his own death was preferable to watching Buffy die, like a good little drone of the Council should have been satisfied to do so, having seen a Slayer serve out her sentence. Ethan had after all, risen him to challenge things. And wasn’t that another ironic thought; that it had helped hone the blade that had just been turned on it?

 

If he couldn’t save her, then he was bloody well going to go down with her. Ethan could go to Hell, for all he cared. Come to that, he would probably be dragged down with it, but he could handle that, he was sure. He’d spent fifteen years looking for a way out, and now he was ready to face the only one that had ever been presented to him.

 

He took the bike straight to the graveyard, knowing that she was probably already down there, possibly facing the Master (and if that wasn’t ostentatious, even as far as the standard of vampires went, then nothing was), and facing her own death. He had seen the terror in her expression when she had first found out, and later the determination that it was replaced by, as she had decided that she was going to go down in battle, keep the world safe with her last breath, which was a decision that he should have made for himself a long time ago.

 

If he’d had even a quarter of her courage throughout his life, then he’d have been a better person by far. As he left the bike standing against the side of the crypt and headed inside, pausing only to check that he was armed; stakes, knife and magic still crackling at his fingertips, he realised that he was already saying goodbye to the world. It was a far easier thing to do, now that he was going headlong to meet his end.

 

He summoned a ball of fire to light the path ahead of him, and followed that unswerving feeling of which direction it was that the Slayer had gone in, heading deeper and deeper underground, as that heat which he had cursed from day one finally faded, as he reached a depth where the sunlight would never warm again, the remnants of the old town that was buried under the new one. Appropriate really, a grave for a town, under a graveyard.

 

There was no sound, not even the shuffling and scrabbling of rats. He knew that it meant that he was going in the right direction.

 

Ducking his head, he entered the oldest of the shells of buildings, and was surprised to see her, simply standing there. He looked up, it the direction that she was staring in, just as she looked back towards him, to the sound of his harsh breathing as he entered the cavernous, echoing space.

 

There was the Master, ears pointed, and a permanent mouthful of pointed fangs, skin pale, and its nose twisted up like a bat’s. Its hands were tipped with nails that had grown hard, and thickened, twisting into claws, and when it moved, it was jerky, like something that was used to a far larger frame. He could feel its power, twisted, and tainted and black from all the way back here, spreading a treacle coating over everything that it could touch with it. It was the worst kind of power, the sort that infected anything around it, twisting desire and corrupting need. He wondered briefly, what it had been like in life, if it had perhaps sold its soul before it had been turned, as a price for power.

 

It wouldn’t have been the first time such a thing had been done.

 

And he could also see why she had frozen, as though she were rooted to the spot.

 

For a few moments he struggled to make sense of it, and then gave up, having some feeling of mercy for his poor brain.

 

“Heinrich Joseph Nest. I see you haven’t weathered the time well. All these years underground in the dark have been harsh on you, by the look of it. How many did you offer your soul to, before your human life ended? It’s no wonder you trapped yourself, with all of those that must be waring for your power.”

 

He stared at that familiar back, watched that gliding, predatory flow that he would have been able to pick out of a crowd of thousands, listened to that note of mock which seemed to permeate most things that it said.

 

“What the hell is going on?” Buffy’s voice was low, as he drew alongside her, “I mean, who sent out the invitations to the party?”

 

He watched as the ripple of the morph passed though it, a familiar enough motion even from its back.

 

“That’s Ethan,” he replied in an equally soft voice, and left it at that, if only because he didn’t know what else to add.

 

“What is this invasion of my sanctuary? Have you come to throw yourself on my mercy, another vulture like the rest of these fools that lurk in my shadow, desperate for a fragment of the power that I will wield when I walk upon the earth once more? All it will take is a sip of the Slayer’s blood, and then the world is mine.”

 

He felt its power slid past Ethan, and circle around Buffy.

 

“Come here, girl,” its tone dropped, and acquired a note that would seep into her subconscious, designed to strip a person of both free will and fear. Rupert raised a hand, and shattered the stream of power with a jolt of magic, ignoring the jolt that the unrefined power gave to him, as the backlash struck him.

 

And he could hear the smirk in Ethan’s voice.

 

“I’m afraid not, Nest. I’m in it for the Chaos alone. And it should be quite something to see, once I’ve torn you from your throne of blood and bodies. Besides which, I protect what’s mine, and that boy there is exactly that. The Slayer is his, more the black sheep element, I’m afraid. Either way I protect my own.”

 

“You think that you can challenge me?” Nest’s voice was cold, and welcoming of the challenge, “you’ll hardly be enough to warm my bones, before I wreck havoc upon the waiting world. I will drain this town dry, and the Old Ones will take their place at the top of the human vermin. Your ash will cover the ground before me, for I have walked this world for over six centuries.”

 

“I know you have, child.”

 

Ethan met Nest’s tackle with a speed that was almost painful to try to follow. He saw flashed of claw and tooth, and caught any overspill of power that flashed out in their direction, as the pair flipped over and over, never slowing for long enough that he could see what one seemed to be winning.

 

The sounds from the two reminded him rather vividly of a pair of dogs that he’d once seen brawling in the street for a fragment of thrown meat. Snarls, and hissing, and that animal-like guttural growl. For a few seconds they parted, and he could see scratches and what looked like a burn through a spot where shirt had once been.

 

And this time it was Ethan that led the attack. He saw a claw-like bolt of power carve through the air, and a body fell back, head hitting the ground beside it, as flesh seemed to melt off, dissolving to a fine powder around it. He’d heard of vampires that were too old to dust completely, those that walked with almost fossilised bone, and it seemed Nest was one of them.

 

He looked squarely at the ancient, standing, hunched over the bones, again giving him the impression of a predator, this time guarding a kill from those that would dare to try to steal it out from under its nose.

 

Growling, a slight tremble running through it, it raised its head to follow his movements, never taking its cold amber gaze from him. He took a couple of paces forward and stopped, giving it time to focus on him again. He knew how to handle this now, if nothing else.

 

If he crossed into its circle of flight when it was like this, then there would be hell to pay.

 

Keeping his own tremble out of his voice, he finally spoke, as its body langue became a little less defensive. Not much, but just enough to show him that it was beginning to think again.

 

“Ethan?”

 

Another terse moment passed, and then it straightened, and morphed back to human, before it grinned and began to laugh, “Ah. I haven’t had that much fun in a long time.”

 

“Why?” he asked the question, leaving it open-ended.

 

“I believe I’ve told you that I’m no fool, Rupert. Everything about you told me that you were going to your death again. And I meant it, that nothing touches what’s mine. I see no harm in you playing Watcher for a little longer.”

 

Quietly he looked it, that shirt half torn, the worst of the cuts that it had picked up already beginning to heal over, and the flickering candlelight playing over its human skin, glinting off its eyes, and he saw something that he never had before.

 

“Thank-you.”

 

His voice was soft, and he meant the words with every fibre of his being.

 

Looking away from it, he glanced back towards his Slayer, who was hanging back, looking unsure of herself, and then back towards Ethan again.

 

He thought that he could live with this.

 

**End**

**(of part 1)**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest piece I've yet written. Hence comments, whether good, constructive, or indifferent are more than welcome. Thanks to anyone that's taken the time to read this, and it is genuinely appreciated.


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